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THE POET SCOUT: 



BEING A SELECTION OF INCIDENTAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE 



VERSES AND SONGS. 



By CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD, 



BETTER KNOWN AS 



THE POET SCOUT OF THE BLACK HILLS.' 






n\ 



SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.: 
H. KELLER & CO. 

1879. 



I JV0.JIJ.A.I.A 






Copyright, 1879, 

BY 

Henry Keller & Company. 



To My Comrades 

of 

The Grand Army of The Republic 

I 

Respectfully Dedicate 

these pages, 

in memory of those dark days of the rebellion when 

we stood shoulder to shoulder together, and 

in grateful tribute for their many 

kindly fayors to me 

in the camp, the field and the hospital. 

JOHN W. CRAWFORD. 

San Francisco, August, 1879. 



TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. 



Custer City, D. T., April 25, 1876. 
The bearer, Captain Jack Crawford, a member of the Board of Trustees of 
Custer City, and Chief of Scouts for the Black Hills Rangers, is sent out for 
the purpose of reporting the movements of hostile bands of Indians, who have 
been committing daily depredations in the Hills ; also, to protect emigrants, 
and warn them of danger. Trusting his credentials will prove satisfactory, 
we subscribe ourselves your sincere friends and well-wishers. 

J. G. Beamis, Mayor and President of the Board of Trustees. 

E. Wynkoop, Commanding Rangers. 

George W. Blair, Superior Judge. 

A. B. CHArLAiN, City Attorney. 

P. J. Keefer, City Recorder. 

S. R. Shankland, Gulch Recorder. 

Hon. P. McKay. 

Charles Whitehead (Correspondent Kansas City Times). 

D. W. Fleck, M. D. 

D. K. Sxively, "1 

O. B. Jacobs, ,, . , , , , ^ 

„ ,, r „ r Members ot the Board of Trustees. 

C. W. COLWELL, 

A. A. Abby, 



Executive Chamber, \ 

Harrisburgh, Pa., May 8, 1875. j 

The bearer, J. W. Crawford, is an estimable gentleman of intelligence and 
character, who served gallantly and faithfully during the late war in the 
Union armies, and any courtesies shown him will be duly appreciated by 
Yours respectfully, J. F. Hartranft. 



I cheerfully recommend Mr. Crawford, knowing well Governor Hartranft's 
signature above. W. T. Sherman. General. 

San Francisco, Oct. 12, 1877. 



The following is from the New York Herald of July 8, 1877 : 
" In the Indian campaign of last summer one of the bravest and most en- 
terprising of the scouts attached to General Crook's army was Captain Jack 
Crawford. In the month of September, with the permission of General Mer- 
ritt, he gallantly carried the Herald special account of the battle at the Slim 
Buttes through 300 miles of hostile country, and outstripped, by killing 
several horses, all other messengers." 



CONTENTS, 



Preface n 

Life Sketch of the Author 13 

Notes 17 

SKETCHES AND INCIDENTS. 

Buffalo Bill's Indians 23 

Sour Mash 25 

SONGS OF THE MOUNTAIN, THE MINING CAMP, AND 
THE PRAIRIE. 

The Scout's Request Before the Battle 39 

The Miner's Home 42 

Rattlin' Joe's Prayer 44 

Bald Mountain 48 

Notes in Camp Meeting 50 

My Little New Log Cabin in the Hills 53 

My Mountain Home 54 

I'm Sad To-Night 56 

The Ruined Virginia 58 

Wild Bill's Grave 61 

Only a Miner Killed 63 

An Epitaph on Wild Bill 65 

Last New Year's Day in the Black Hills 66 

The Burial of Wild Bill 68 

Last Christmas Day in the Black Hills 70 

Our Prospect 72 

vii 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Spring in the Black Hills 74 

The Death of Little Kit 75 

Farewell to Our Chief 78 

The Death of Custer 79 

Farewell, Old Cabin Home 83 

The Welcome Home 86 

Musing 88 

Among the Peaks 90 

Comrade, Why this Look of Sadness ? 92 

Under the Snow 95 

The Dying Scout 99 

Sandy's Revenge 101 

God Bless Ye, Gener'l Crook 104 

The Old Trapper's Religion 106 

Never Give up the Ship no 

California Joe and the Girl Trapper 114 

Buffalo Chips, The Scout 125 

The First that Died 130 

Our Jack — In Memoriam 132 

My Ideas 134 

The Old Miner 136 

Ode to Cariboo Friends 138 

To Charley 139 

Custer 142 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND SONGS. 

The Picnic by the Brook 147 

Birds of the Hudson Bay 149 

Lines to Col. J. G. Fair 151 

My Own Mountain Tree 152 

Lines on the Baby Boy 153 

Those Eyes 154 

Good-Bye 155 

Under the Sod 157 

The Dead and Living 159 

At Last 161 

Jack Crawford 163 

The Poor Man's Soliloquy 164 

Off to the Picnic 168 

To Mary Ann and Charles O'Neill 170 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Cato's Ideas 172 

The Grave of My Mother 174 

That Boy 175 

The Rangers' Retreat : 176 

Nora Lee 178 

The First Flower of May 181 

San Bernardino 182 

My Birthday 184 

Lillie 185 

ARMY AND TEMPERANCE POEMS. 

Our First Re-union 189 

Decoration Day 192 

Our Martyred Dead 195 

My First Song 197 

Mother's Prayers 200 

My Temperance Pledge 203 

Mother's Influence 205 

The Murphy Gang 207 



PREFACE. 



The selections contained in the following pages are not published with the 
view of winning literary or poetical fame. They are the unpolished and often 
impromptu offspring of my idle hours, wherein many past incidents of an 
adventurous life reproduced themselves in memory, and took the shape of 
verse. I therefore respectfully deprecate criticism. I have never figured as 
a hero of fiction or dime novels, and have refused to allow my name to be 
used in connection with that kind of literature ; hence I come before you with 
my "Poet Scout" in a measure unheralded. I had a Christian mother, my 
earliest recollections of whom was kneeling at her side, praying God to save 
a wayward father and husband. That mother taught me to speak the truth 
when a child, and I have tried to follow her early teachings in that respect. 
It would require a much larger book than this to tell the story of my life, 
and the sufferings of one of God's good angels — my mother. To her I owe 
everything — truth, honor, sobriety, and even my very life. Her spirit seems 
to linger near me always ; she has been my guardian angel. In the camp, 
the cabin, the field and the hospital, on the lonely trail, hundreds of miles 
from civilization, in the pine-clad hills and lonely canons, I have heard in the 
moaning night winds and in the murmuring streamlets, 

The voice of my angel mother 
Whispering soft and low. 

And these sacred thoughts have made me forget at times that there was 
danger in my pathway. Nor will I ever forget 

The day that we parted, mother and I, 

Never on earth to meet again ; 
She to a happier home on high, 

I a poor wanderer over the plain. 

xi 



xi i PREFACE. 

That day was perhaps the greatest epoch in my life. Kneeling by her 
bed-side, with one hand clasped in mine, the other resting upon my head, 
she whispered: " My boy, you know your mother loves you. Will you give 
me a promise, that I may take it up to heaven?" "Yes, yes, mother; I 
will promise you anything." "Johnny, my son, I am dying," said she ; 
" promise me you will never drink intoxicants, and then it will not be so 
hard to leave this world." Dear reader, need I tell you that I promised 
"Yes ;" and whenever I am asked to drink, that scene comes up before me, 
and I am safe. Why did mother exact this promise from me, who never 
knew the taste of liquor ? Ah, my dear reader, liquor deprived me of a 
good father, made him forget his own flesh and blood, deprived me of even 
the rudiments of an education, and sent me to bed many a night crying for 
bread. But let me not detain you with any further account of these things ; 
my Poems, simple and uncouth as they are, will tell you better than I can 
do in a preface like this. My Poems are not the work of my imagination — 
they are entirely written on facts and incidents in my life, and the lives of 
my comrades and associates. With these few remarks, I launch my little 
craft upon the sea of your kind indulgence, and I am 

Yours truly, 

J. W. CRAWFORD. 

"Captain Jack." 



LIFE SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 



Captain John W. Crawford, the writer of the following pages, has had 
an eventful and checkered career. He was born of mixed Irish and Scotch 
parentage, in the county Donegal, Ireland, his mother being a lineal descendant 
of Sir William Wallace : but some political troubles, in which his father got 
involved, soon afterwards broke up the family home, leaving the hero of this 
sketch compelled to provide for himself almost from infancy. His father, 
who was a tailor by trade, found means of escaping to New York, from 
whence he proceeded to Pennsylvania, and seeing a business opening at 
Minersville, in that State, soon established himself in a lucrative position. 
Here his unfortunate taste for strong drink got the better of his manhood, 
and it was four years before the suffering, striving family at home heard of 
his whereabouts. At length he wrote, asking his wife to rejoin him, and by 
the assistance of friends she soon did so. A temporary reformation on the 
part of the one, and a year of hard and saving labor by the other, enabled 
them to get enough money together to send for their children. The lust of 
liquor, however, in the elder Crawford was too strong to be repressed, and 
the. new home was a most unhappy one for the wife and children. It was 
this experience of the terrible effects of intemperance that inspired Jack 
Crawford with the determination never, under any circumstances, to expose 
himself to the clutch of the Demon, and to war against the Monster with all 
his might and strength as long as God would give him breath. 

The following incident, which took place during Custer's campaign on the 
Yellowstone, shows how fixedly he kept to his resolution : 

It was at the close of a hard day's march, and the command had toiled 
through long miles of rough country, in the midst of a rain storm such as is 
known only in the Rocky Mountains. The officers were seated around the 
camp-fire trying to extract some warmth from the smouldering buffalo chips, 
when one of them produced from his saddle-bag a canteen of whisky, and 
taking a long draught, with the remark, "This is the soldier's best friend," 
passed it to the scout. 

"Thank you, Captain, but I never drink." 

xiii 



LIFE SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 



" Never drink ! " replied the officer. " Why, it is almost incredible : you 
are the first man I ever met with on the plains who refused good liquor." 

"Yes, Jack," said several of the others, who were interested listeners to 
the conversation, "tell us how it is you are so strict a temperance man." 

"That stuff which you are drinking," replied the scout, "robbed me of a 
good father, made him forget his own flesh and blood, and changed him 
from a man to a brute. That is not my only reason. Years ago, when my 
poor mother was on her death-bed, she called me to her side, and holding 
out her thin white hand, asked me to promise, in the presence of my brothers 
and sisters, and in the invisible presence of God, that my lips should never 
touch the destroyer. Gentlemen, I consider that vow is registered in heaven, 
and I have kept it. I do not even know the taste of liquors. Is my reason 
satisfactory? " 

Captain Jack has illustrated this incident in one of the following pages. 
(See " Mother's Prayers.") 

The necessity of earning a living and helping to support his mother and 
the younger members of the family deprived the boy Jack of all educational 
opportunities, so that when he enlisted, at the age of fifteen, he could only 
make his cross. He joined the 4Sth Regiment Pennsylvania Volunteers, his 
father having re-enlisted in the same regiment after serving with the first 
three months' men. At the great battle of Spottsylvania Court House, Jack 
was severely wounded, while charging the rebel works, and carried to the 
field hospital, afterward to Washington, and finally to the Saterlee Hospital, 
in West Philadelphia. Here it was that he commenced to feel the want of 
an education, and here it was that one of those angels of mercy — a kind Sister 
of Charity — not only saved his life, but learned him the rudiments of reading 
and writing. On the iSth of May, 1864, his father was severely wounded- in 
the head, and, although he returned to his regiment, was discharged for 
disability, and died soon after the war. Jack returned to his regiment at 
Petersburgh, and was wounded again on the 2d of April, 1865, about the 
close of the war. Soon after this his mother died, and the young soldier 
scout struck out for the wild West. His letter from General Hartranft, 
endorsed by General Sherman, soon gained him the confidence and esteem 
of the frontier military. He was one of the pioneers of the Black Hills, chief 
of their scouts, and one of the founders of Custer City, Deadwood, Crook, 
Gayvillo and Spearfish. During the Indian campaign of 1876, Captain Jack 
was second in command of General Crook's Scouts, and superseded Buffalo 
Bill as chief, on the 24th of August of the same year. 

In the saddle, but few men have enacted such feats as the " Poet Scout." In 
July, 1876, in response, to a telegram, he rode from Medicine Bow, on the 
Union Pacific Railroad, to the Rosebud and Little Big Horn, in the Big 
Horn Mountains, nearly four hundred miles, through a country teeming with 



LIFE SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 



savages. On another occasion he carried the New York Herald's special 
account of the battle of Slim Buttes to Fort Laramie — about three hundred and 
fifty miles — in less than four days, beating five fresh relays of couriers, and lead- 
ing the fastest, five hours and sixteen minutes. The enterprising Herald 
paid Jack $500 for his services, and afterwards allowed him $222.75 addi- 
tional for expenses, he having killed two horses. 

As a writer in the Omaha Bee, Crawford has gained a reputation for pithy 
and original sayings, and an easy, chatty style, which delighted his readers, 
and made them long to be better acquainted with the man. As a poet, he 
has also made his mark. True, he sadly lacks education, but he may well 
say, with Burns — 

" Give me a spark o' nature's fire, 
That's a' the learning I desire." 

Much of his poetry is after the style of Bret Harte, but there is not an 
unreal character in any one of his poems. Every verse in these pages con- 
tains descriptions of real incidents in the life of the author or some of his 
comrades ; hence, as he says himself, his verses are more truthful than poetic. 
Jack has never allowed his name to be used in connection with dime novel 
literature. " If," said he, " I cannot make a reputation upon my own 
merits, I shall never endeavor to do so through false representations. I am 
simply Jack Crawford, boy soldier, rustic poet, scout, bad actor, etc.'' 



NOTES. 



The Black Hills correspondent of the Kansas City Times writes : 

Captain Jack was one of the first of the white men to break through the 
military cordon surrounding the Black Hills and reach the gold mines. He 
was one of the original founders and incorporators of Custer City, and the 
leader of the company of scouts which protected the miners and cabin build- 
ers from Indian inroads and forays while they built up their stockade on 
French Creek. It was here on French Creek that the Times correspondent 
found the " Poet Scout" in the winter of 1876. He was discovered sitting 
astride of a log on the corner of his half-built cabin, sawing off a log. As he 
was the only newspaper scout then in the Black Hills, the Times man soon 
made his acquaintance. In the winter campaign of 1876-7 the Times special 
correspondent had an opportunity of studying the long-haired scout, and 
saved a few of his hastily written rhymes. A few of these are herewith sub- 
mitted. They have never been in print before, and were written out in the 
woods in the Black Hills without study or preparation. One bright morn- 
ing the "Poet Scout" called at the tent of the Times correspondent, who was 
busy writing a letter home, and offered to write a few verses. He was given 
as a subject " Custer," and in a few moments handed in the following sweet 
poem : 

CUSTER. 

[For Charley of the Times, by Captain Jack.] 

A little city in the park, 

Deep shaded by the trees, 
Ye, gods ! it is a cozy nook, 

Where wafts a gentle breeze ; 
And here the pretty flowers of spring 

Will greet us by and by, 
While pleasure's cup we '11 freely sip — 

The miner boys and I. 
2 xvii 



A r OTES. 



I could not crave a prettier spot 

Henceforth through life to dwell ; 
In Custer I have cast my lot 

And believe that all is well. 
I care not for the wealth untold, 

That underneath us lie, 
Good health and strength is all we ask — 

The miner boys and I. 

Our Custer now is e'en more fair 

Than all my eyes have seen, 
And though some spots around are bare, 

Our park is fresh and green. 
Go search the earth, I do not care, 

Though, faith, you needn't try, 
You'll never find a spot more fair 

To live or e'en to die. 

And yet of earthly goods no store 

For us has been laid up ; 
We envy none their gold galore, 

While pleasure fills our cup. 
We build our cabins side by side, 

To aid each other try, 
And find them true as steel and tried — 

The miner boys and I. 

And yet misfortune in our day, 

And sorrow have been ours, 
But we expect along life's way 

To meet both clouds and showers ; 
So while our star of hope is bright 

And beaming in the sky, 
■ We '11 trust to luck and to the right — 

The miner boys^and I. 

At another time the "Poet Scout," while on an exploring trip with thr 
Times correspondent, gave the history of the then best gold-bearing bar in the 
Hills — " Calamity Bar." In response to the inquiry made by the incpiisitive 
Times man as to why such a rich gold digging was named " Calamity," Cap- 
tain Jack dashed off on a piece of paper the following reply, which has never 
before been published : 



NOTES. 



CALAMITY BAR. 

A funny name ? so it is, pard, 

But I'll tell ye how it was : 
Ye see a lot of us miners 

Was a buckin' agin the laws. 

Wall, I was one of the buckers, 
Who'd come to try my luck, 

An' while the rest was buckin', 
I got up an' began to buck. 

Wall, ye see it was just that time, paid, 
While I was out on the look, 

A company of Uncle Samuel's, 
Commanded by General Crook, 

Came riding along the gulches, 
All armed and ready for war; 

So I made a bee line for Custer, 
And soon arrived at this bar. 

The soldiers came up to our bar, 

But then it hadn't a name ; 
And there was a gal with the soldiers 

They called " Calamity Jane." 

And while the soldiers were chatting 
And talking of Injuns and war, 

A soldier said, " Jane, in your honor, . 
We'll call this Calamity Bar." 

And that's how it got its name, pard ; 

The Calamity ain't so bad: 
There's fifteen cents to the pan here, 

And you bet I feel mighty glad. 

And as for Jane, she's a daisy, 

She tends to the sick and distressed ; 

They tell me she comes from Virginny, 
The bulliest town in the West. 



xx NOTES. 

The foregoing are two of the ordinary and heretofore unpublished speci- 
mens of the "Poet Scout's " extempore work. He possesses the faculty of 
making verses on any subject as fast as he can talk, and this without prepara- 
tion or a moment's thought. His poem on the death of Custer, written on 
Indian Creek, at the base of the Black Hills, when he met Buffalo Bill while 
on his way to join General Crook's expedition, is pronounced to be one of 
the best gems of American poetry. 

So, also, is the poem written on the shooting of Wild Bill, at Deadwood, 
last summer. There is a beauty and a fascination about the writing of this 
wild, uncultivated frontiersman which cannot fail to make its impression. 
He has won his way to popularity wherever he has gone, and to-morrow 
night he will make himself known to the people of Kansas City. He is 
modest, retiring and prepossessing, and will no doubt be favorably received 
here. 



SKETCHES AND INCIDENTS. 



The Poet Scout. 



BUFFALO BILL'S INDIANS. 

~\ 1 THILE Buffalo Bill and myself were playing a star en- 
* gagement at the Bush Street Theatre, in San Francisco, 
we utilized the " supers " of the theatre for the material with 
which to make our prairie savages. There being an insufficiency 
of "supers," Bill sent me on a little scout to find some more 
Indians. I soon returned with half a dozen robust Hoodlums, 
with faces already made up for the war-path. For the ordinary 
"super," the blood-thirsty scenes enacted behind the foot-lights 
have scarcely even the charm of novelty, and he goes through his 
part utterly ignoring enthusiasm or emotion, and paying strict at- 
tention only to mechanical effects. With these amateurs, how- 
ever, the case was different. The pleasure of being slaughtered by 
B. B. had an irresistible fascination for them, and when our season 
closed in '"Frisco," the new recruits felt that the grandest epoch 
in their existence was over. They asked our agent if they were 
going along with the company, and on receiving a reply in the 
negative, the utmost consternation prevailed among them. A 
number of them came to Bill and me, and begged to be taken to 
Sacramento, anyhow, and said one : " We will pay our own 
traveling expenses from there through the circuit." We finally 
paid their fares to Sacramento, and after the close of our 
engagement there they quickly disappeared. When we reached 
Virginia City no "supers" were to be seen; but on opening the 

2X 



24 THE POET SCOUT. 



wardrobe trunk, we found that several Indian suits were missing, 
and came to the conclusion that the " supers " had stolen the 
missing toggery, and started on the war-path on their own 
account. About three o'clock that afternoon, however, a num- 
ber of them turned up, carrying their wardrobe under their 
arms. 

They told their experience as follows : " When we got through 
in Sacramento, Ave didn't know what the mischief to do next. 
Finally we went into the theatre and snaffed our wardrobes, 
then into an old shed, dressed up in our togs, and painted our 
faces. You see, Indians are allowed to ride free on all the roads; 
so we got on the back platform, and concluded we could fake it 
through somehow. The conductor never bothered us till we 
struck Reno, when Scotty, the dog-gone fool, gave us dead away 
tryin' to spout Shakespeare. When he said, 'Now is the win- 
ter of our discontent made glorious summer' Superinten- 
dent Yerington, who was passing along the platform, heard 
the blasted fool, and dropped on the whole racket. He called 
a couple of brakemen, and told 'em we war white men, and they 
fired us off. We commenced to jabber Choctaw and Piute, but 
it wouldn't work worth a cent. Then we slid around and got 
into a freight car, but they dropped on that, and fired us again. 
Then we walked up from Reno — and here we are." "Yes; 
here we are," said Scotty, " an' if we don't eat till after the 
show, we're liable to drop without bein' shot." Bill ordered 
some rations, and the noble warriors went through their war- 
dance that night on a full stomach. 



)> 



SOUR MASH, 

AND HOW THE BOYS USED IT. 



A TRUE TALE. 



TN July, 1876, while at Omaha with some quartz from the 
Black Hills, I received a telegram from the Hon. William 
F. Cody (Buffalo Bill). The telegram was in these words : 

Head-Quarters Fifth U. S. Cavalry (in the Field). 
Jack — Have you heard of the death of our brave Custer ? 

Buffalo Bill. 

My poem written on that day and sent to Bill, entitled 
" Custer's Death," was my answer. I went from there to 
Chicago, where I was carefully interviewed by the reporter of 
the Times, after which Lieutenant-General Phil Sheridan sent 
for me for the purpose of learning something of the Black Hills, 
and to see whether his maps were correct. Upon seeing my 
specimens of quartz the General remarked: 

" Captain, this is the first substantial evidence I have seen 
of gold-bearing quartz in the Black Hills." 

While at the General's head-quarters I received another tele- 
gram from Cody, asking me to join him at once, and help avenge 
the death of our noble leader. I showed General Sheridan 
the telegram, when he asked, " Will you go ?" I answered in the 
affirmative, and the General very kindly gave me a letter to that 
other brave soldier and dashing cavalry leader, General Wes- 
ley Merritt. I started at once for the front. Arriving at Chey- 

2 5 



26 THE POET SCOUT. 



enne, I discovered that the Fifth Cavalry had left Fort Laramie 
four days before. Superintendent Clark, of the U. P. R. R., 
furnished me free transportation for self and horse to Medicine 
Bow, which would bring me within ninety miles of Fort Fetter- 
man, to which the Fifth had gone. Before starting, however, 
Mr. Jones, the proprietor of the Jones House, in Cheyenne, said 
to me : 

" Jack, will you do me a small favor? " 

" Certainly," said I. 

"I want you," said he, " to carry a small parcel to Buffalo 
Bill." 

" With pleasure," said I. " What is it ? " 

"Sour Mash" said Jones ; with a peculiar twinkle of his left 
eye. 

I said no more, fearing to betray my ignorance, for I must con- 
fess I was ignorant, just then, of what he meant by " Sour Mash.' 1 '' 
However, I was not long in ignorance, for in a few moments 
Jones produced from behind the counter an oval-shaped quart 
bottle, with the following inscription nicely lettered : 




To Buffalo Bill, 

From Jones, R. R. House. 
Politeness Capt. Jack. 

After getting my pony on board the train, I bid farewell to 
Jones and the boys who came to see me off, and soon reached 
Medicine Bow, where, after feeding the pony and getting on 
the outside of a good square meal myself, I saddled up and 



SOUR MASH. 27 



started to ride ninety miles. I reached Fetterman at 2 o'clock 
next morning, having left Medicine Bow about 1 P. M. the day- 
previous. I reported to the officer of the day, a young stripling 
of a lieutenant, who put on more style than the Commander- 
in-Chief. He gave me a corner in the barracks, and about 7 
o'clock I woke up as fresh as a daisy, and reported to Captain 
Coats, commanding. In the meantime I learned with regret 
that Bill and the old Fifth had left Fetterman three days before. 
I immediately telegraphed General Sheridan (according to 
promise) of my arrival, so that if there were any dispatches I 
was ready to carry them to General Crook, in the Big Horn. 
Next day after my arrival, a courier, named Graves, came in 
from Goose Creek with dispatches, and informed me of his 
intention to return in company with me. After receiving fresh 
horses, and an extra horse to pack the mail, we started, each with 
a canteen of water, which had to last us ninety miles, from the 
Platte to the Powder River. The weather was intensely warm, 
and before we got half way my canteen was empty. Several 
times Graves offered me a sup from his, but I declined, saying 
I was not very dry. Yet, at the same time, I lied liked a trooper 
— my mouth and throat were fairly parched. So, by and by, I 
said to Graves : 

"Pard, I'll just take a mouthful of your water." 

" No ye won't," said he; " she's empty." 

I could stand it no longer. So the next lake of clear v/ater I 
came to, I dismounted and half filled the canteen. I took a 
good pull out of it, but it was fearful — almost pure alkali. I took 
two or three tastes of it after that, and when we reached the 
Powder River I went for a dose of the pure mountain water, but 
was almost immediately attacked with cramps in my stomach, 
which drew me up like an Indian bow. Graves had gone off to 
reconnoitre, and see if there were any fresh Indian signs, and 
there I lay, rolling and snorting like a buffalo bull with the 
nightmare. Finally Graves came up, and, although I would 
not care to have seen my own face in a looking-glass, his was not 



28 THE POET SCOUT. 

less comical. He stood for a moment, with his mouth half open, 
looking at me; then suddenly, as if something had struck him, 
he remarked : 

" Well, may I be chawed up. by a catermount, if we ain't in a 
nice box." 

"Yes," said I, trying to be funny. "Jack in the Box." 

"What did I tell ye?" said Graves; "why, that water ye 
drank would tangle the inards of a painter. Wait a bit — I'll 
fix ye," and so saying he went for my saddle-bag, and jerking 
out the " Sour Mash " was about to pull the cork. " Hold on," 
said I ; " don't you open that bottle. That was given me to 
take to Buffalo Bill; and even if it was my own or yours, I 
would just as soon pass in my checks right here as touch one 
drop." " You're a dog-gone fool, Jack; but I reckon as how I 
kin fix ye yet;" and going to his overcoat he took from the 
breast pocket a small parcel and opened it, producing a small 
bottle of Jamaica Ginger. 

"Now, Graves," said I, "you've struck it," and in less time 
than it takes to tell it I had nearly two teaspoonfuls skirmishing 
with the alkali, and in a few moments I felt much relief. 

" Now, Jack," said the old miner, " do ye know what are up ? 
Not two hours ago fifty Sioux warriors passed this spot, and 
their trail is leadin' down stream." 

"Good! I'm glad of that!" 

"Why?" asked Graves. 

" Because if they are going down stream at this point they 
are coming from the Big Horn; while if they were going up, we 
might have had very disagreeable company." 

" That's a fack ; but thar may be more on 'em a comin' to 
meet us." 

"We have good glasses," said I, " and if their crowd is larger 
than ours we will spy them first ; if of equal numbers we have 
no need to fear them." 

However, we concluded to lay over all day and let our horses 
feed and rest while we slept in turns. Next morning we pulled 



SOUR MASH. 29 



off our horses' shoes, in order to throw the reds off our trail, by 
making believe we were Indians, should any of them chance to 
cross us in the rear. I will not attempt to give the full details 
of this long ride of over four hundred miles — two men alone on 
the prairie and in a country teeming with savages. We had to 
keep ever on the alert for signs of danger. We had to ride day 
and night while in the open country, for there were no cozy 
nooks wherein we could hide until we reached Clear Creek. 
Here we made a camp and rested a whole day, and about day- 
light next morning passed through old Fort Phil Kearney — 
(once the scene of a fearful massacre). Next day we camped 
on Goose Creek, and having passed within five miles of the 
wagon train, we made a circuit of thirty miles still on the trail. 
In the meantime we had thrown away overcoats and blankets, 
retaining nothing but the clothes we wore and a rubber blanket 
each, except, of course, the "Sou/- Mas//." Arriving at the wagon 
train we were again disappointed, although glad to get there. 
General Crook and the whole command had gone two days 
before with the pack train across the mountains toward the Little 
Big Horn and the Rosebud. Major Furey made us comfort- 
able, took charge of mail and dispatches, and remarked : 

"Well, boys, you've had a tough ride. I suppose you will 
camp with us until the command returns ? " 

" No, Major," said I, " I came here to join Buffalo Bill and 
the Fifth Cavalry, and I shall take their trail this very night, if 
you will kindly furnish me with a horse." 

"Yes," said Graves; "and, Major, if it's all the same, I 
would like to stay with Jack." 

The Major remonstrated, saying it would be impossible for us 
to reach the command, as the train was attacked only the night 
before, and the country was swarming with Indians; and to 
prove that his fears were well grounded, he would not allow us to 
take the dispatches for General Crook, which we brought from 
Fort Fetterman, fearing we should lose our hair and the dis- 
patches to boot. However, when we did reach the General, he 



THE POET SCOUT. 



was not a little displeased at Major Furey's action, when we 
informed him of our having dispatches for him. But I must 
hurry on. We left the train about 7 P. M., taking the trail of 
the command, and in three hours we were inside of a regular 
horse-shoe of fire. We noticed the fire before we got into it, 
but, seeing an opening in front, we made good time, expecting 
to get through, when suddenly the fire came together, and we 
were almost surrounded. Retreat was impossible, as that would 
be cut off ere we got back, so we had to take our chances. On 
we rode, however, while the fire was meeting us with nearly as 
good time. It was a grand scene. 

As I have said, we were in a horse-shoe. Fortunately, the 
wind was not blowing, and until we came close enough to the 
fire to feel its heat we scarcely felt a breath of wind, save that 
made by the motion of our horses. Our minds were made up, 
however, and moving up from the creek called Prairie Dog, we 
got on to the high ground, where the grass was shorter, and I, 
having the best horse, full of life and fire, drove the spurs into 
his flanks, at the same time giving a yell that would put to shame 
a tribe of Comanches. My old horse Dan, who was a veteran 
of the Third Cavalry, snorted and plunged a moment, and then 
dashed forward to meet the flames. Graves followed close in 
our trail, and in a few moments more we had got fairly into the 
thick smoke. I had put my hair up under my broad hat, and 
tied a silk handkerchief around my head, and lowering my 
head, giving old Dan the reins, and holding on to my rifle and 
the horn of the saddle, I dashed into the flame and smoke. It 
was only a few seconds, however, and we found ourselves safe 
on the other side, with only a little less hair on our horses' 
limbs. We finally reached Tongue River, and, after crossing 
the river six or seven times — as it wound snake-like through the 
valley — we halted where the trail turned toward the mountains. 
It was 7 A. M., and we concluded to halt and rest all day in the 
shade of a few thin cottonwoods — very little protection, how- 
ever, from sun or Indians. That was the longest day I ever 



SOUR MASH. 31 



spent — too hot to sleep, and no shade from the scorching rays 
of the sun. Finally we again started about 6 P. M., and it was 
well that we did, for an hour's ride after leaving Tongue River, 
and on the trail leading to the Custer battle-ground, brought us 
in sight of an Indian scouting party. Instead of being disap- 
pointed, we expected to see this party of reds sooner or later, 
and the sooner the better, as it showed us we were nearing the 
command. There are always a band of Indians on the trail for 
the purpose of picking up played-out horses, or anything thrown 
away by the soldiers, such as old clothes, pots, pans and kettles. 
Soon as we reached the timber on the Rosebud range, we hugged 
them closely, and upon reaching the summit, where are some 
beautiful parks and lakes, we made a circuit, avoiding the In- 
dians, and, expecting to strike the trail again before morning, 
about 2 A. M. we found ourselves descending into a little horse- 
shoe shaped park, surrounded by thick timber. Graves, who 
said he thought he had been here 'afore, rode a little in advance, 
and, when in sight of the valley below, halted, and when I came 
up he remarked : "Jack, we're off the track. This here's the 
very spot where Reno 'tacked Crazy Horse's village from." 

There was no alternative. We must go on, and on we went, 
down that terrible canon where Custer, after a seventy-mile 
march, led his gallant three hundred, never to return. The 
night was chilly, the sky murky and threatening a storm. A 
peculiar feeling crept over me while walking my horse slowly 
down to that valley — the thought that the bones of Reno's 
dead were scattered around close by. My mind was busy 
trying to picture that terrible charge and stubborn fight of 
Custer and his men, when suddenly in our front began a series 
of barks or howls, which I at once recognized as the alarm- 
notes of the coyote. These howls continued for a short time, 
and then ceased altogether, but only for a moment. Again they 
broke out a hundred-fold worse. Graves' horse became almost 
unmanageable. He dismounted, and led him up alongside of 
old Dan, who kept as cool as a cucumber. By this time we had 



THE POET SCOUT. 



reached that part of the Indian village where the main body of 
Custer's command fell. The night was perfectly hideous with 
the continued howling of the coyotes. Here I also dismounted, 
and found bones and skulls on all sides. It seems the dead had 
been buried hurriedly, and these wolves and coyotes had not 
much trouble in digging them up. We mounted again, anxious 
to get out of that valley of death. We crossed over the moun- 
tain, or Hog Back, and at daylight found ourselves on the 
head waters of the Rosebud. Here we found splendid shelter 
from sun and Indians, and, being fatigued, I soon lay down to 
sleep, leaving Graves on the watch. I had scarcely been asleep 
half an hour, when I was awakened by a peculiar sound, as if a 
pig was caught under a gate, and could not go either way. 
Upon getting up on my elbow, what was my surprise to see my 
worthy Graves on his back, his arms extended east and west, 
and his mouth wide open, while that peculiar sound which woke 
me seemed to rake his nose fore and aft. Of course that settled 
my sleeping for the present. So, collecting a handful of very 
dry wood, so as to make as little smoke as possible, I set to 
work to make a cup of tea. We had no more provisions, 
except a few hard tack, having finished our bacon the day 
before. After I had drank my tea Graves woke up, grasped 
his rifle, which lay at his side, and seeing me putting a stick on 
the fire, exclaimed, " Dog-gone it! I came near falling asleep." 

" What time is it, old man ?" said I. 

"Consarn it, Jack, I thought ye was asleep," said Graves, 
rubbing his eyes. 

" So I was, but you woke me up," said I, and pulling out his 
old clock found he had been asleep two hours and a half. 

" Well, dog my cats, Jack, I never done that 'afore, but, con- 
sarn it, I was tuckered out; but I'll just swaller a drop o' that 
tea and ye can sleep for the rest o' the day." 

I slept four hours, and we again broke camp, intending to 
camp no more until we struck the command. We traveled all 
night, and finally, at 3 A. M., we saw a band of horses. I told 



SOUR MASH. 33 



Graves to stay back while I advanced to make sure it was not 
an Indian camp. When I had gone about fifty yards I was 
hailed with the words, "Halt ! who comes there?" 

"Friends," said I; "couriers from Fetterman." 

"Advance," said the sentinel. 

I rode up boldly to where the sentinel stood, and was about 
to dismount, Graves slowly following, when suddenly over a 
hundred Indians sat upright, the moon shining full in their 
faces. I wheeled my horse, drove the spurs into his flanks, and 
made two or three leaps to the rear, when the sentinel yelled, 
" What'n hell's the matter with you ?" 

Hearing no shots fired, I again turned and said : 

" What outfit is this, anyway ? " 

" Why, Crook's outfit, of course." 

Graves, who had also turned to fly with me, laughed and 
remarked : 

" By gosh, Jack, them Injuns is the Snakes, with old Wash- 
akee Crook's scouts." 

And so it turned out to be. Finding ourselves safe we soon 
unsaddled, and after a ride of over four hundred miles I was glad 
to lay down and rest, feeling safe at last. Next morning I was 
awakened with a knock in the ribs from a moccasin foot, and 
upon looking up discovered Buffalo Bill. 

" Come, turn out here and take a good cup of coffee and 
some way-up beans (Boston style)." 

After a good hearty frontier greeting, Bill, with his own 
hands, prepared a breakfast of the best the field afforded — 
namely, a piece of bacon broiled on the end of a stick, some 
broken hard tack and a cup of coffee, with some cold beans. 
After eating, Bill took me around among the officers, and I 
delivered letters which I stole from the wagon train. I also had 
letters for Bill and for a number of newspaper correspondents. 

I reported to General Merritt for duty, and he turned me 
over to Bill, who was then Chief of Scouts. Bill very kindly 
allowed me to stay back with the command to rest and get 
2 



34 THE POET SCOUT. 



acquainted. The day following my arrival, which was the 8th 
of August, it rained, while it was cold enough to freeze. Bill 
and Frank Guard (Crook's guide) had found a camp, and 
fires were immediately started. I was shivering with the cold, 
having no coat and only a rubber blanket around my shoulders. 
Buffalo Bill, General Eugene Carr, commanding the 5th, 
Lathrop, correspondent of the San Francisco Call, and myself, 
were messing together. While the fire was blazing and a kettle 
of water put on to boil, Bill remarked : 

" Lathrop, old boy, how would a Scotch toddy work now ? " 

" Don't rouse my feelings, Bill, if you have any regard for my 
friendship," said Lathrop. 

" Gentlemen," said I, " for my part, I would sooner have a 
good strong cup of hot coffee." 

" Jack," said Bill, "you have never been thar, consequently 
you don't hanker after the trantler." 

" But you'd just give a forty-acre farm, if you had it, for a 
good square drink of Sour Mash" said I, interrupting him ; 
"but I forgot — I brought you a parcel which was sent you from 
Cheyenne." 

" A parcel ? Some socks the missus sent, I suppose ; and yet 
you threw away your own clothes to carry mine. Well, old 
boy, whatever it is, I'll whack up with you half and half." 

" It's a bargain," said I ; " but you are mistaken with regard 
to the contents of the parcel. However, I claim one-half of it, 
to dispose of as I see fit," said I, at the same time bringing my 
saddle-bags to the fire. 

" What the mischief is it ?" asked Bill. 

" Guess," said I. 

" How can I guess ? It must be something nice and useful, 
to be carried so far." 

" You'll say it's nice, no doubt," said I. " As regards its use- 
fulness, you must be the judge." 

" Why don't you say what it is, then, at once ?" 

" Can't you guess? " 



SOUR MASH. 35 



"No." 

" What would you most like to have at this moment ? " 

"A good big horn of old Bourbon," frankly admitted my old 
pard. 

" Good enough ! You've struck it." 

" Git out — you can't fool me. What ! you carry a bottle of 
Bourbon four hundred miles ? " 

" Well, you know, Bill, / don't drink." 

" I know, and that's why I don't believe you would carry it 
so far." 

"And I wouldn't, but I promised a friend I would carry a 
parcel to you, and I've done it." 

"Jack, you've worked my feelin's up to such a pitch that if 
you are foolin', it will go hard with me." 

I pulled out the bottle in an instant. Bill snatched it 
while I was about to hold it up to show its color against the 
sky. 

"What the mischief are you doing ? " said Bill, concealing 
the bottle under his arm. " Do you want the whole command to 
pounce upon it like a pack of wolves ? I never was selfish, Jack, 
but that's too good to be wasted on the small fish." 

" But remerhber, Bill, one-half of that belongs to me." 

" Well, then," said Bill, "it's a pretty safe bet that I work it 
all." 

" How about the General ? " said I. 

"Why, of course, he's of our family." 

" Very well," said I; "my share goes to Lathrop and the 
General." And in less time than it takes to tell it, three tin cups 
held three of the largest punches that were ever stowed away. 
Lathrop swore that never in his life had he tasted anything that 
came so near his idea of the tipple of the gods, and a little later 
he sang with wonderful effect the famous camp song, " The 
Revelry of the Dying," each verse ending — 

" Here's a health to the dead already, 
And hurrah for the next that dies." 



36 THE POET SCOUT. 



This song gained for Mr. L. the appellation of "The Death 
Rattler." He was the life of the camp. 

The soldiers and scouts who gathered around the camp-fire 
that evening thought our crowd were, indeed, a merry one, and 
one of the boys remarked that if he didn't know that there' was 
not a drop of " trantler " within hundreds of miles, he would 
think that Bill and Lathrop were a " leetle sot-up. " I, of course, 
looked wise, and sang an impromptu song, with a " Sour Mash " 
chorus. 




SONGS OF THE MOUNTAIN, 
THE MINING CAMP, AND THE PRAIRIE. 



THE SCOUT'S REQUEST BEFORE 
THE BATTLE. 

'HPWAS a moonlight night, just a year ago, 
-*- As we sat and lay by the old camp fire. 

" Come fill up yer pipes," said Muggins, the scout, 
" And draw yoursel's up just a little nigher, 

" An' I'll tell ye a story (the gospel truth), 

An' I reckon I couldn't lie to-night ; 
For somehow I feel as if this poor cuss 
' Wor goin' ter git left in to-morror's fight. 

'' An' pards if I do — I see ye smile, 
But I ar' in earnest, you bet yer life, 

Nor I arn't afeard to pass in my checks; 

But, pards, I'm a thinkin' of home and wife. 

" I left the old cabin — now two weeks ago ; 

My poor wife's face wor a picter of sorror. 
' Muggins,' said she, 'if ye get killed, 

Then God ' — " but, no matter, I go to-morror." 

" Ye know me, boys, now look ye here, 
Don't tell me I mus'nt go in with you ! 

I never did weaken in all my life, 

An' to-morrow I'll lead them boys in blue. 

" An' if, when the evenin' sun goes down, 

This time to-morror ye find I'm dead, 
I want ye to tell me now, right here, 

Ye won't see my little ones want for bread. 
39 




MUGGINS TAYLOR, THE SCOUT. 



THE SCOUT'S REQUEST BEFORE THE BATTLE. 41 

" No ! thank God ! but how about Jim ? » 

Now, there ar' a boy as is like his dad, 
An' ' Bat.' if ye say that you'll tend ter him, 

Why dyin' to-morrow won't be so bad. 

" Good enough ; now listen : a year ago 

I started out on a trip for fur ; 
And while I war gone, ther' came a cuss, 

As proved himself a cowardly cur. 

" His name war Brannan, some years ago, 
But he changed it since for sufficient cause. 

He deserted his men when he wore the blue, 
An' then went a buckin' agin the laws. 

" That skunk tried to ruin my honest wife. 

Since then he has steered away from my trail. 
Now, pards, I don't tell ye ter take his life, 

But keep yer eyes skinned if he's outen jail." 



Next eve, as the sun was going down, 
And firing had ceased along the line; 

Old Muggins was humming that little song 

Of " Home, Sweet Home," in the bright sunshine, 

When zip came a bullet, and Muggins fell. 

" Battees," he said, " Bat. don't forget, 
My wife — my Annie — my blue-eyed Mag, 

An' Jimmie — our Jimmie — his father's pet." 

We covered him up with the mossy sod; 

Renewed our promise above his grave ; 
Left him alone — alone with his God — 

Muggins, the scout, and Muggins, the brave. * 



THE MINER'S HOME. 

T T is not a castle with towering walls, 
With marble floor and stately halls, 
With lovely walks and grand old trees, 
Nodding and bending in the breeze. 

No ; his home is an humble cot, 
Perched perchance on the mountain top, 
With tunnels beneath, where the iron horse 
Thunders along on his fiery course. 

Fair Virginia ! above the hill 
Where miners dig with pick and drill, 
Where honest toilers seek to rest 
Their weary bones upon thy breast. 

A loving wife to make one glad, 
A babe to kiss the miner lad — 
With this the miner need not roam 
If he's got a cottage and love at home. 

Mine, though far away from here, 
My cabin home is ever dear. 
Bright memories haunt me every day 
Of that cabin where I often lay, 

And dreamed of eyes of heavenly blue — 
A maiden young and fair and true ; 
Of brighter days, and toil's reward, 
A maiden's love for a mountain bard. 

42 



THE MINER'S HOME. 43 

Up the mountain, down the glen, 
Each eve I see these hardy men ; 
With axe and shovel, pick and drill, 
They toil all day with a hearty will. 

And when at e'en their toil is o'er, 
They hasten home to the open door 
Of the little cot ; though shaggy and grim, 
There's happiness there and love within. 

Though the rooms within are low and small, 
There's whitewash on the old gray wall; 
The table with its crockery, too, 
Is glistening like the morning dew. 

While all seem happy in the cot, 
The children, sporting on the lot, 
Are merry as a marriage bell, 
And mother whispers, " All is well." 

And now good-bye — I must away, 
My time is up. Yet, while I say 
Good-bye, I'll wish, where'er I roam, 
That God will bless The Miner s Home. 



Virginia City, June 26, 1877. 



*->^i^fe<<r-*- 



RATTLIN' JOE'S PRAYER. 

J 1ST pile on some more o' them pine knots, 
An' squat yoursel's down on this skin, 
An', Scottv, let up on yer growlin' — 

The boys are all tired o' yer chin. 
Alleghany, jist pass round the bottle 
An' give the lads all a square drink, 
An' as soon as yer settled I'll tell ye 
A yarn as '11 please ye, I think. 

'Twas the year eighteen-hundred-an'-sixty, 

A day in the bright month o' June, 
When the Angel o' Death from the Diggin's 

Snatched " Monte Bill " — known as McCune. 
Bill war allers a favorite among us, 

In spite o' the trade that he had, 
Which war gamblin'; but — don't you forget it — 

He of 'en made weary hearts glad ; 
An', pards, while he lay in that coffin, 

Which we hewed from the trunk o' a tree, 
His face war as calm as an angel's, 

An' white as an angel's could be. 

An' thar's whar the trouble commenced, pards. 

Thar whar no gospel-sharps in the camps, 
An' Joe said : "We can't drop him this way, 

Without some directions or stamps." 
Then up spoke old Sandy McGregor : 

" Look 'ee yar, mates, I'm reg'lar dead stuck, 
44 



RA TTLIN* JOE'S PRA YER. 45 



I can't hold no hand at religion, 

An' I'm 'feared Bill's gone in out o' luck. 
If I knowed a darn thing about prayin' 

I'd chip in an' say him a mass ; 
But I aint got no show in the lay-out, 

I can't beat the game, so I pass." 

Rattlin' Joe war the next o' the speakers, 

An' Joe war a friend o' the dead; 
The salt water stood in his peepers, 

An' these are the words as he said : 
" Mates, ye know as I aint any Christian, 

An' I'll gamble the good Lord don't know 
That thar lives sich a rooster as I am ; 

But thar once war a time, long ago, 
When I war a kid, I remember, 

My old mother sent me to school, 
To the little brown church every Sunday, 

Whar they said I was dumb as a mule, 
An' I reckon I've nearly forgotten 

Purty much all thet ever I knew. 
But still, if ye'll drop to my racket, 

I'll show ye jist what I kin do. 

" Now, I'll show you my bible," said Joseph — 

" Jist hand me them cards off that rack ; 
I'll convince ye thet this are a bible," 

An' he went to work shufflin' the pack. 
He spread out the cards on the table, 

An' begun kinder pious-like : " Pards, 
If ye'll jist cheese yer racket an' listen, 

I'll show ye the pra'ar-book in cards. 

"The 'ace,' that reminds us of one God, 
The 'deuce,' of the Father an' Son, 



46 THE POET SCOUT. 



The 'tray,' of the Father an' Son, Holy Ghost, 

For, ye see, all them three are but one. 
The ' four-spot ' is Matthew, Mark, Luke an' John, 

The 'five-spot,' the virgins who trimmed 
Their lamps while yet it was light of the day, 

And the five foolish virgins who sinned. 
The ' six-spot ' — in six days the Lord made the world, 

The sea and the stars in the heaven ; 
He saw it war good w'at he made, then he said, 

I'll jist go the rest on the ' seven.' 
The ' eight-spot ' is Noah, his wife an' three sons, 

An' Noah's three sons had their wives ; 
God loved the hull mob, so bid 'em emb-ark — 

In the freshet he saved all their lives. 
The 'queen' war of Sheba in old Bible times, 

The ' king ' represents old King Sol. 
She brought in a hundred young folks, gals an' boys, 

To the King in his government hall. 
They war all dressed alike, an' she axed the old boy 

(She'd put up his wisdom as bosh) 
Which war boys an' which gals. Old Sol. said : ' By Joe, 

How dirty their hands ! Make 'em wash ! ' 
An' then he showed Sheba the boys only washed 

Their hands and a part o' their wrists, 
While the gals jist went up to their elbows in suds. 

Sheba weakened an' shook the King's fists. 
Now, the 'knave,' that's the Devil, an' God, ef ye please, 

Jist keep his hands off'n poor Bill. 
An' now, lads, jist drop on yer knees for awhile 

Till I draw, and perhaps I kin fill ; 
An', hevin' no Bible, I'll pray on the cards, 

Fur I've showed ye they're all on the square, 
An' I think God '11 cotton to all that I say, 

If I'm only sincere in the pra'ar. 



RATTLIN' JOE'S PRAYER. 47 

Jist give him a corner, good Lord — not on stocks, 

Fur I ain't sich a darned fool as that 
To ax ye fur anything worldly fur Bill, 

Kase ye'd put me up then fur a flat. 
I'm lost on the rules o' yer game, but I'll ax 

Fur a seat fur him back o' the throne, 
And I'll bet my hull stack thet the boy '11 behave 

If yer angels jist lets him alone. 
Thar's nuthin' bad 'bout him unless he gets riled — 

The boys '11 all back me in that — 
But if any one treads on his corns, then you bet 

He'll fight at the drop o' the hat. 
Jist don't let yer angels run over him, Lord, 

Nor shut off all to once on his drink ; 
Break him in kinder gentle an' mild on the start, 

An' he'll give ye no trouble, I think. 
An' couldn't ye give him a pack of old cards, 

To amuse himself once in a while? 
But I warn ye right hyar, not to bet on his game, 

Or he'll get right away with yer pile. 
An' now, Lord, I hope thet ye've tuk it all in, 

An' listened to all thet I've said. 
I know thet my prayin' is jist a bit thin, 

But I've done all I kin for the dead. 
An' I hope I hain't troubled yer Lordship too much — 

So I'll cheese it by axin' again 
Thet ye won't let the ' knave' git his grip on poor Bill. 

Thet's all, Lord — yours truly — Amen. " 

Thet's " Rattlin' Joe's " prayer, old pardners, 

An' — what ! you all snorin' ? Say, Lew, 
By thunder! I've talked every rascal to sleep, 

So I guess I hed best turn in too. 



BALD MOUNTAIN. 



Lines composed while on a prospecting tour with some Cariboo pioneers, 
to whom these lines are respectfully dedicated. 

A AT HAT mighty mountains I behold 

v Where'er I turn my eyes, 

Undoubted evidence of gold, 

With snow peaks in the skies ; 
And down below green pasture land, 

Where cooling streamlets flow, 
I never gazed on sight so grand 

As this I see below. 



What means those giant ledges there 

With mossy-covered brow ? 
And, tell me, are there none that bear 

The gold we're seeking now ? 
The little streamlets seem to frown, 

(I almost hear them say) 
" For ages we have washed it down 

Where miners struck the pay." 

And Nature ought to teach us, too, 

If we would read aright, 
That every ounce from Cariboo 

Came down some rugged height ; 
And though our sky is looking dark, 

Our quartz is yet untried, 
Remember that Noah built an ark 

To float upon the tide ! 
43 



BALD MOUNT A IX. 



49 



And surely you, old pioneers 

(Who came in times of old), 
Will only laugh at idle fears, 

And never lose your hold ; 
For one who never turned a drill 

And never fired a shot, 
Can little know what's in the hill, 

Except for some vile plot. 

But so it is in every land, 

Wherever gold is found, 
There're thieving tricksters right on hand 

To run it in the ground; 
And you who toil from morn till night — 

Will you give up the ship 
When you have got a stake in sight — 

Let go and loose your grip ? 

Thou crystal bed, half decomposed, 

With walls six feet apart, 
We ask no wise philosopher 

To tell us what thou art. 
'Tis but the miner can unfold 

Thy secret, as we know, 
And wrest from thee the precious gold 

Thy bosom holds below. 

Go ask the winds, ye grumbling drones, 

If all you've heard is true — 
If all your quartz is barren stones 

In all your Cariboo ? 
And they will bleakly answer back, 

" Go, learn in Nature's school ; 
Go, take your pick and bend your back, 

But don't consult a fool." 
Cariboo, B. C, August 8th. 1878. 



NOTES IN A CAMP-MEETING. 

While traveling in Pennsylvania, the local of the Jersey Shore Herald re- 
quested me to accompany him to the West Branch Camp-meeting, near 
Williamsport, and take some notes and write a poem for his paper. I did 
so, as under : 

T have heard the different preachers, 

In the camp among the trees, 
And the voices of the angels, 

Seeming wafted with the breeze ; 
And I'm sure the God of Battles 

Smiled on those who came for good — 
But I fear he frowned on many 

Who were wicked, vain and rude. 

The demon Rum I saw, too, 

As he staggered through the camp, 
And the crowds who drank in darkness, 

For they shunned the lighted lamp. 
There were many Williamsporters — 

And how they cursed and swore ! 
And I noticed quite a number 

From your moral Jersey Shore. 

Now, the camp is good for Christians, 

And for those who wish to come 
To the crystal fount of Jesus ; 

And I know that there are some 
Who have sought and found a Saviour, 

Who was heretofore unknown ; 
But I prefer the wilderness, 

To pray to Him alone. 
5° 



NOTES IN A CAMP-MEETING. 51 

And often in the wildwood, 

And on the far-off plain, 
Where, all alone, so oft I've been. 

And soon will be again — 
'Twas there, when shades of evening 

And twilight round me fell — 
Yes, there alone with angels, 

I thought of heaven and hell ! 

And when in camp, last evening, 

And sitting 'neath the trees, 
I was taking notes of incidents, 

And thought how hard to please, 
If Christ Himself came down to preach 

And cure the sin-diseased, 
There's some who would not hear Him, 

And some would be displeased ! 

But there is one thing certain, 

And I'll tell you on the square — 
I've seen some preachers put on style 

"With such a foreign air ; 
And some with stand-up collars 

Would a ragged sinner scorn ! 
They came out from the city 

To blow their gospel horn ! 

They told us, too, what they had done 

In other fields of grace- — 
How many sinners they had saved 

From the tormenting place; 
But there is none that / have met 

Who'd risk his scalp with me, 
And go convert the noble Sioux 

For smaller salary ! 



5 2 



THE POET SCOUT. 



Give me the brave old pioneers — 

The heroes good and bold — 
Who never feared to fight or die 

For Christ and His little fold ! 
The men who left their homes, their all, 

The savage wilds to fight — 
Who felled the forest trees by day 

And preached us Christ by night. 

Such is the man I love to meet, 

Whose face wears Heaven's brand — 
With manly courage in his heart 

And rifle in his hand. 
And if some of these dainty preachers 

Cared less for wounds and scars, 
Would go out West and preach Christ there, 

We'd have less Indian wars ! 

But if I've judged them wrongly, 

Oh, pardoned may I be ; 
But they're not just the kind of preachers 

To convert such men as we. 
Of course, we've no book learning, 

But then our hearts are right — 
If we don't know much about preaching, 

We at least know how to fight ! 

So, Bill, old man, and you, Jack, 

Away to the front and flank ; 
You must soon again face that danger 

From which you never shrank ; 
And if they won't send preachers 

To convert the savage state, 
Of course the knife and bullet 

Must be the red man's fate. 



MY LITTLE NEW LOG CABIN 
IN THE HILLS. 

A PARODY. 

Written at Custer City, in the Black Hills, in the Spring of 1876, for Dick 
Brown, the banjo player, and sung by Dick and me, the miners joining in 
the chorus, in the camp and the cabin. 

T N my little new log cabin home my heart is light and free, 

While the boys around me gather every day, 
And the sweetest hours I ever knew are those I'm passing now, 
While the banjo makes sweet music to my lay. 

CHORUS. 

The scenes are changing every day, the snow is nearly gone, 
And there's music in the laughter of the rills ; 

But the dearest spot of all the rest is where I love to dwell, 
In my little new log cabin in the Hills. 

While the birds are sweetly singing to the coming of the spring, 
And the flow'rets peep their heads from out the sod, 

We feel as gay and happy as the songsters on the wing 
Who are sending up sweet anthems to their God. 

Chorus — The scenes are changing, etc. 

Then let us work with heart and hand, and help each other 
through 
In this pretty little world we call our own, 
Whether building or prospecting — yes, or fighting with the 
Sioux, 
For 'tis hard sometimes to play your hand alone. 

Chorus — The scenes are changing, etc. 



53 



MY MOUNTAIN HOME. 



TO P. ALANDER. 



"T^AR beyond the rolling prairie 
Is a home more dear to me 
Than your grand and stately mansions, 

Or your cottage by the sea. 
In a little dell that's girdled 

By the mountains, rocks and trees, 
And the notes of nature's songsters 

Making music in the breeze. 




54 



MY MOUNTAIN HOME. 55 



Why I love my shady woodland, 

Why I love each flowery dell, 
Where, beside my trusty comrades, 

I have fought where many fell; 
Where so oft alone I've wandered, 

Sat and mused the whole day long, 
To the music of the songsters 

I have sang my humble song. 

Yes, I love the shady woodland, 

And I love each flowery dell, 
Where around the blazing camp-fire 

Stories we would hear and tell, 
And, with merry voices ringing, 

Comrades joined me in my rhymes, 
While we sang of by-gone pleasures 

And the days of other times. 

Oh, how happy in the woodland, 

Or beside some mountain brook, 
Where so oft the speckled beauties 

Dangled shining on my hook ; 
Where the deer and elk were grazing, 

Where the buffalo loved to stray, 
Birds on every sheet of water, 

And life seemed a long day's play. 

Then at night, when all was quiet, 

How my friends would gather .iear, 
In the little old log cabin, 

Where each hardy pioneer 
Used to laugh and shout so hearty 

To the banjo's merry tone — 
Shall we meet no more, dear comrades, 

In thac little mountain home? 



I'M SAD TO-NIGHT. 

Lines suggested by the following remark from a young lady at a Christ- 
mas party : " Captain, you seem happy always." 

T 'M sad to-night, and yet my face 

Is only marked with cunning smiles, 
For looking in the glass I trace 
In every feature false beguiles. 

I'm sad to-night, and yet they say, 
Because I dance and laugh and sing, 

That I am always, oh ! so gay, 

And laugh with such a merry ring. 

But I would scorn to show my grief, 

I use my muscle and my brain ; 
For work will always bring relief, 

And sunshine comes just after rain. 

And though the game is hard to find, 

I've got no time to weep or wail ; 
Let those who will remain behind, 

I'll still pursue the same old trail. 

I'm sad to-night, and yet just now 

A hundred merry voices rang ; 
There's perspiration on each brow, 

From laughing at the song I sang. 
56 



7 'M SAD TO-NIGHT. 



57 



I'm sad to-night — why do I sing ? 

Because God gave me voice and power! 
And oft I've made the woodland ring, 

While all alone with some wild flower. 

And often on the lonely trail 

I've bursted out with something new; 

I started with a song from Yale, 
I'm singing yet in Cariboo. 

I'm sad to-night, and yet should I 
Let others know one care or. sorrow, 

While hope is whispering by-and-by, 
No ! No ! 'twill be all right to-morrow. 

I'm sad to-night, but sweet ambition 
Tells me, I must hold my own ; 

And while lasts the ammunition 
I will hold the fort alone. 

Other skies have clouded o'er me, 
Other moons have shone less bright, 

But, fair star of hope before me, 
Thou hast been my beacon light. 

Yes, I'll tarry with thee longer, 
Ever faithful, firm and true, 

Confidence still growing stronger, 
In thy hills, fair Cariboo ! 

And I believe with those old timers 
That there's luck for thee and thine — 

Lucky years for all our miners 
Forty, sixty, seventy-nine. 
Caribou, B. C, Dec, 187S. 



THE RUINED VIRGINIA. 

TO MY PARI), J. B. O'MAHUNDRO (TEXAS JACK). 
Virginia City, Nevada, almost totally destroyed by fire, October, 1876. 

F^ID I hear the news from Virginny — 

The news of that terrible fire ? 
Yes ; but I couldn't believe it — 

I thought the bearer a liar ; 
But when I found it square, pard, 

I weakened, you bet, right here, 
And I didn't care a tinker's 

Who saw me drop a tear. 

Just reason the thing for a minute — 

There's two thousand miners right there, 

It's cold up there in the mountains, 
And some's got no breeches to wear. 

And that ain't the worst; for instance, 
There's two of my old pards hurt, 

And a dozen that wore plugs on Sunday 
Ain't got the first stitch but their shirt. 

Now, Jack, ain't that rough on Virginny ? 

Well, there ain't no saints out there; 
And I 'spec' it's a second Chicago, 

And this is a kind of a scare. 
But dog my cats if I see it 

Exactly in that thar way, 
For most of them hardy miners 

Are honest, by Joe, as the day. 
58 



THE RV1XED VIRGINIA. 59 

But maybe it's all for the better — 

That's what the good people say ; 
But I don't want any in mine, pard, 

If the Lord will but keep it awav. 
I don't read much in the Scripture, 

But I've heard the good parson talk 
About sinners bein' punished by brimstone 

When against the commandments they balk. 

Now, I don't jist understand it. 

Though I tumble to what they say ; 

Nor I don't see why the Almighty 
Should treat a poor man in that way. 

While the fellers who's got the lucre, 
And the worst to connive and swear, 

Always give us poor devils the euchre — 
The deal ain't exactly square. 

And if, as the parson tells 

There's a place after this called hell, 
With fire and red-hot brimstone — 

With a nasty kind of smell ; 
I'll be dogged if some fine snoozers 

(That I have a reason to know) 
Won't find it a scorchin' old corner 

In that furnace way down below. 

Now, there was old Kit McGregor, 

He was rough and ready, but smart, 
He could whip any man in the diggin's — 

And there wasn't a flaw in his heart. 
But when old Parsox Plum, one evenir.. 

Done dirt — didn't act on the square — 
He sent daylight clear through him. 

Ar.d laid the old sinner out there. 



6o THE POET SCOTT. 



Now, is Kit goin' to hell for that, Jack ? 

Not much! the Lord bid him shoot, 
And he killed a worm of the devil — 

A hypocrite, rogue and galoot. 
Besides, the gal was his darter, 

And she panned out a woman most fair, 
And was loved by all in the diggin's — 

But Kit had revenge right there. 

And if some of them Eastern preachers, 

Who's Tiltin' around the courts, 
Would do as old Kit McGregor, 

And stop these long-winded reports, 
There wouldn't be so much sinnin', 

Nor wimmin degraded so low, 
But they go in for the lucre — 

Revenge has a d — d poor show. 

So, Jack, while we look at Virginny, 

We'll just take a bead on New York, 
And see where the sinners are greatest — 

Back there or out on the fork. 
We won't say a word about Brooklyn, 

For who but the saints can tell 
Whether it will be turned to religion, 
Or still be a fortress of hell ? 

That is, after Moody and Sankey 

Have done with their preachin' and sich; 
I hope that the gods will assist them 

In awakin' the guilt-covered rich. 
And yet it matters but little 

To us in the diggin's, I'm sure, 
But this is my candid opinion : 

The Lord won't go back on the poor. 
Custer City, D. T., Dec, 1878. 



WILD BILL'S GRAVE. 

/^~\N the side of the hill, between Whitewood and Deadwood, 
^-^ At the foot of the pine stump, there lies a lone grave, 
Environed with rocks and with pine trees and redwood, 

Where the wild roses bloom o'er the breast of the brave. 
A mantle of brushwood the greensward incloses, 

The green boughs are waving far up overhead ; 
While under the sod and the flow'rets reposes 
The brave and the dead. 

Did I know him in life ? Yes, as brother knows brother ; 

I knew him and loved him — 'twas all I could give, 
My love. But the fact is we loved one another, 

And either would die that the other might live. 
Rough in his ways? Yes; but kind and good-hearted; 

There wasn't a flaw in the heart of Wild Bill, 
And well I remember the day that he started 
That grave on the hill. 

A good scout? I reckon there wasn't his equal, 

Both Fremont and Custer could vouch for that fact. 

Quick as chain-lightning with rifle or pistol — 

And this is what Custer said : "Bill never backed." 

He called me his " kid" — I was only a boy; 
To ungratefulness Bill was a stranger, 

Ready to share every sorrow and joy, 
Brave hunger and danger. 

And now let me show you the good that was in him — 
The letters he wrote to his Agnes — his wife; 

61 



THE POET SCOUT. 



Why, a look or a smile, one kind word could win him. 
Hear part of this letter — the last of his life : 

" Agnes, Darling: — If such should be that we never meet again, while 
firing my la.st shot I will gently breathe the name of my wife — my Agnes — . 
and with a kind wish even for my enemies, I will make the plunge and try to 
swim to the other shore." 

Oh, Charity ! come fling your mantle about him ; 

Judge him not harshly — he sleeps 'neath the sod. 
Custer— brave Custer! — was lonely without him, 
Even with God. 

Charge, comrades, charge ! see young Custer ahead ! 

His charger leaps forth, almost flying ; 
One volley ! • and half of his comrades are dead — 

The other half fighting and dying ! 
Let us hope, while their dust is reposing beneath 

The dirge-singing pines in the mountains, 
That Christ has crowned each with an evergreen wreath, 

And given them to drink from His fountains. 
Virginia, Aug. 2, 1877. 



% - " 



ONLY A MINER KILLED. 

Although everything that science, skill and money can devise is done to 
avert accidents, the average of fatal ones in the Comstock is three a week. 
'* Three men a week." 

Only a miner killed ; 

Oh! is that all? 
One" of the timbers caved ; 

Great was the fall, 
Crushing another one 

Shaped like his God. 
Only a miner lad — 

Under the sod. 

Only a miner killed, 

Just one more dead. 
Who will provide for them — 

Who earn their bread ? 
Wife and the little ones, 

Pity them, God, 
Their earthly father 

Is under the sod. 

Only a miner killed, 

Dead on the spot. 
Poor hearts are breaking 

In yon little cot. 
He died at his post, 

A hero as brave 
As any who sleep 

In a marble-top grave. 



64 THE POET SCOUT. 



Only a miner killed! 

God, if thou wilt, 
Ju^-t introduce him 

To old Vanderbilt, 
Who, with his millions, 

If he is there, 
Can't buy one interest — 

Even one share. 

Only a miner killed! 

Bury him quick, 
Just write his name on 

A piece of a stick. 
No matter how humble 

Or plain be the grave, 
Beyond all are equal — 

The master and slave. 




AN EPITAPH OX WILD BILL. 

The following epitaph on J. B. Hickock (Wild Bill) was written while 
sitting on his grave, near Deadwood, on the loth of September, 1876. 

O LEEP on, brave heart, in peaceful slumber, 

Bravest scout in all the AVest ; 
Lightning eyes and voice of thunder. 
Closed and hushed in quiet rest. 
Peace and rest at last is given ; 
May we meet again in heaven. 
Rest in peace. 



65 



LAST NEW YEAR'S DAY IN THE 
BLACK HILLS. 

"OEYOND the Mississippi, 

And the old Missouri, too, 
On the far and distant prairie, 

With comrades brave and true, 
One year ago I wandered 
In the hills so far away ; 
I was happy in my cabin 
One year ago to-day. 

The morning was a fair one, 

And the skies were bright and clear, 
And the snow like diamonds sparkled. 

While we chased the panting deer ; 
I never will forget it, 

Each miner lad felt gay, 
For we found a splendid prospect 

One year ago to-day. 

A band of hardy miners 

At evening gathered round, 
Some en rustic benches 

And others on the ground ; 
We ate and drank together, 

Our hearts were light and gay, 
For a Concord coach first entered 

Our Hills last New Year's day. 
66 



LAST NEW YEAR'S DAY IN THE BLACK HILLS. 67 



And as the noble horses 

Came flying up the street, 
With fifteen hardy miners, 

You bet it was a treat; 
And the noble Colonel Patrick, 

'Twas this I heard him say : 
" Come in and take a drink, boys, 

For this is New Year's day." 

But time has worked its wonders, 

And in every gulch and glen, 
Instead of half a hundred, 

Ten thousand hardy men, 
With sluice and pan and rocker, 

Work hard and trust in heaven; 
And twenty Concord coaches 

Are there in seventv-seven. 



Coxcord, N. H., 1S76. 



^miw^ 



THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL. 

to his last, best friend, charley utter (colorado 
Charley) 

T NDER the sod in the prairie-land 
We have laid him down to rest, 
With many a tear from the sad rough thron<. 

And the friends he loved the best ; 
And many a heart-felt sigh was heard 

As over the earth we trod, 
And many an eye was filled with tears 

As we covered him with the sod. 

Under the sod in the prairie-land 

We have laid the good and the true — 
An honest heart and a noble scout 

Has bade us a last adieu. 
No more his silvery laugh will ring, 

His spirit has gone to God ; 
Around his faults let Charity cling 

While you cover him with the sod. 

Under the sod in the land of gold 

We have laid the fearless Bill; 
We called him Wild,, yet a little child 

Could bend his iron will. 
With generous heart he freely gave 

To the poorly clad, unshod — 
Think of it, pards — of his noble traits — 

While you cover him with the sod. 
68 



THE BURIAL OF WILD BILL. C 9 

Under the sod in Deadwood Gulch 

You have laid his last remains ; 
No more his manly form will hail 

The red man on the plains. 
And, Charley, may Heaven bless you ! 

You gave him a " bully good send ; " 
Bill was a friend to you, pard, 

And you were his last, best friend. 

You buried him 'neath the old pine tree, 

In that little world of ours, 
His trusty rifle by his side — 

His grave all strewn with flowers ; 
His manly form in sweet repose, 

That lovely silken hair — 
I tell you, pard, it was a sight, 

That face so white and fair ! 

And while he sleeps beneath the sod 

His murderer goes free, 
Released by a perjured, gaming set, 

Who'd murder you and me — 
Whose coward hearts dare never meet 

A brave man on the square. 
Well, pard, they'll find a warmer clima 

Than they ever found out there. 

Hell is full of just such men ; 

And if Bill is above to-day, 
The Almighty will have enough to do 

To keep him from going away — 
That is, from making a little scout 

To the murderers' home below; 
And if old Peter will let him out, 

He can clean out the ranch, I know. 







A SNOW STORM IN THE BLACK HILLS. 



LAST CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE 
BLACK HILLS. 

AST Christmas day, I remember it well — 
And I reckin I'll still remember — 
When emigration began to swell, 

Though our chances war mighty slender. 
A band of as bully men, by Jove, 

As ever struck out a trailin', 
Struck for the Hills ter hunt for gold, 
With bull teams just a sailin'. 



LAST CHRISTMAS DAY LV THE BLACK HILLS. 71 

And I war guide of the outfit, pards ; 

Ye see I'd been thar before, 
When we struck it rich on Calamity Bar, 

So I struck for the Bar once more. 
But I'll never forget when crossin' the Platte, 

And the ice in the middle gave way 
And down went our wagons, bulls and all — 

Pards, that war last Christmas day. 

Ye see, it was only a mile across — 

Wall, that ain't much out thar — 
But the boys kinder left it ter me, bein' boss, 

As ter whether the ice would bear ; 
So I reckined as how I thought it would, 

And we started — gee whoa — right away ; 
But she cracked like an old cook's kettle, she did — 

Pards, that war last Christmas day. 

Who cuss'd ? ' O, no, pards, I never swar, 

But just about that ar' time 
There wasn't much poetry in my head — 

I couldn't a spun a rhyme — 
Ye see, the quicksands war orful bad, 

And none of us felt very gay; 
'Cause we had ter wade and carry our grub— 

Pards, that war last Christmas day. 

And now while I'm ridin' on cushion seats, 

With nothin' to worry or fret, 
By thunder, I almost wish I war back 

A courtin' my bride, my pet ; 
I mean my " Winchester," bully old gal — 

And the reds will keep out of her way ; 
She dropped a buck weighin' three hundred pounds — 

Pards, that war last Christmas day. 
New Bedford, Mass., 1S76. 



OUR PROSPECT. 

P HERE'S a bonny wee spot in the mountains I love, 
Where the pine trees are waving o'erhead far above, 
Where the miners are happy, kind-hearted and free, 
And many come here from way over the sea. 




There's gold in the mountains, there's gold in each glen, 
The good time is coming, have patience, brave men ; 

72 



OCR PROSPECT. 



73 



Hold on to your ledges, and soon you will see 
Both money and mills coming over the sea. 

I have seen your Bonanza, your great Cariboo, 
I've been in your tunnels, but everything's new; 
I've stood at the face of your wondrous Lowhee, 
And find that the prospects are good as can be. 

Don't think that Victoria will give you a hand, 
Nor furnish a baw-bee to prospect your land. 
The miner must prospect and show the gold free, 
Then capital comes from way over the sea. 

Now take my advice, and I'm in with you, too, 
Just stick to your ledges whatever you do ; 
Don't worry and fret, if at first you don't see 
A fortune in sight, for it's coming to thee. 

Barkerville, B. C. 



3 5a & el 

, . .... ., a 




SPRING IN THE BLACK HILLS. 

Written at the conclusion of a letter to the Omaha Bee, in 1876. 

T3EAUTIFUL Spring in the highlands of nature, 

Snow on the hill-tops and grass in the vale ; 
Sunshine is beaming on each living creature, 

And not e'en one sorrow our joys to assail. 
The pine trees are bowing and bending before us, 

The miner is building his new cabin home ; 
The voice of the wind seems to whisper above us, 

" Angels watch o'er you where'er you may roam." 

Beautiful Spring, you will loosen the fountains, 

Long sealed by the frost in the valleys and hills ; 
And down from the tops of the mightiest mountains 

Will dance little streamlets and murmuring rills. 
Blessings will follow — we feel it, believe it — 

If men will be faithful and work hand in hand, 
Though many will tempt you, while working, to leave it, 

But don't you be fooled, for theie's gold in this land. 

Beautiful Spring, you will bring us sweet flowers ; 

Thousands will gather from far o'er the land, 
And many will find bright homes in these bowers, 

And, seeing the grandeur, themselves grow more grand. 
Farmers will come with their plows and their harrows, 

The bright golden grain will be waving ere long; 
While civilization will bury the arrows — 

And the red man will sing his last sad death-song. 
74 



DEATH OF LITTLE KIT. 

TO HIS FATHER, BUFFALO BILL. 

The following verses were written at Custer City, D. T., on hearing from 
Mr. Cody (Buffalo Bill) of the death of his little boy, Kit Carson Cody. 

A IX Y friend, I feel your sorrow- 
Just as though it were my own, 
And I think of you each morrow 

As I ponder, when alone, 
On the wonders of our Maker, 

As the world goes round and round ; 
Since Kit is with his namesake 

In the happy hunting ground. 

But the parson used to tell us 

Of things we little knew, 
And how the Lord would chasten 

The good, the brave and true ; 
That all was for the better, 

Though it used to tax my wit, 
Till I heard he sent an angel 

For your darling, little Kit. 

At first I thought, but thinking 

Made me wonder still more, 
Till at last I saw a vision 

While I slumbered on the floor 
Of my little new log cabin 

In the Hills, not long ago. 
Yes, I saw the old Kit Carson, 

With a beard as white as snow. 
75 



7 6 THE POET SCOUT. 

He wore the same old buckskin, 

But white, as if just tanned, 
And beyond him, on the prairie, 

Was a scene so very grand 
That I would not dare describe it — 

But that voice, that well-known sound- 
The words were, " Pards, I'm happy 

In the happy hunting-ground ! " 

I saw an angel hover 

O'er a dark ravine below 
The rippling, dancing water 

That in silvery streams did flow. 
Then downward went the angel; 

Old Kit just leaped for joy, 
When from below that angel 

Brought Kit, your darling boy. 

The old man raised him fondly, 

And clasped him to his breast, 
While peace and sweet contentment 

Upon him seemed to rest. 
Just then a painted redskin 

Was scowling from a mound, 
When crack went Kit's old rifle, 

And the fiend went under ground. 

And then a milk-white pony 
And a steed as white as snow, 

With wide expanded nostrils, 
Were roaming to and fro, 

When Kit exclaimed, " Come, darlings, 
My prairie birds, this way ! " 



DEATH OF LITTLE A'/T. 77 

And soon they both were mounted, 
While the choir began to play. 

I heard the sweetest music 

That mortal ever heard, 
While steed and snow-white pony 

Were flying like a bird. 
I woke, and in my cabin 

Your letter soon was found ; 
And Kit had joined his namesake 

In the happy hunting-ground. 

And, pard, when life is ended, 

If acting on the square, 
We, too, will meet old Carson 

And your baby-boy up there. 



«^#uiiiy - • 




FAREWELL TO OUR CHIEF. 

The following lines were written on the field on the same day that BUF- 
FALO Bill bade farewell to the command, and were published in the Roch- 
ester (N. Y. ) Democrat, on his arrival in that city, September, 1876. 

TO W. F. CODY (BUFFALO BILL). 

TZ^-YREWELL ! the boys will miss you, Bill; 

In haste let me express 
The deep regret we all must feel 

Since you have left our mess. 
While down the Yellowstone you glide, 

Old pard, you'll find it true, 
That there are thousands in the field 

Whose hearts beat warm for you. 

And while we wish you every joy, 

Wherever you may roam — 
.Success in everything you try, 

And happiness at home ; 
Yet would we wish you ever near 

To join us in the shouts 
Of courage when the foe is near, 

And hail you Chief of Scouts ! 

So, Bill, old boy, we wish you well — 

We cannot wish you more ; 
On sentiment we will not dwell — 

You've been with us before ; 
Your smiling face, your manly form, 

The starlight in your eye, 
In memory always will be dear — 

God bless you, pard — good bye ! 
78 




THE DEATH OF CUSTER. 

In July, 1876, I received a telegram from W. F. CODY (Buffalo BillJ 
which read : " Have you heard of the death of our brave Custer?" I 
immediately wrote the following verses, which I sent Mr. Cody, in answer 
to his dispatch, on the following day. 



"T^ID I hear news from Custer? 
Well, I reckon I did, old pard 
It came like a streak of lightnin', 
And, you bet, it hit me hard. 
79 



THE POET SCOUT. 



I ain't no hand to blubber, 

And the briny ain't run for years; 

But chalk me down for a lubber, 
If 1 didn't shed regular tears. 

What for ? Now look ye here, Bill, 

You're a bully boy, that's true; 
As good as e'er wore buckskin, 

Or fought with the boys in blue ; 
But I'll bet my bottom dollar 

Ye had no trouble to muster 
A tear, or perhaps a hundred, 

When ye heard of the death of Custer. 

He always thought well of you, pard, 

And had it been heaven's will, 
In a few more days you'd met him, 

And he'd welcome his old scout, Bill. 
For, if ye remember, at Hat Creek 

I met ye with General Carr ; 
We talked of the brave young Custer, 

And recounted his deeds of war. 

But little we knew even then, pard 

(And that's just two weeks ago), 
How little we dreamed of disaster, 

Or that he had met the foe — 
That the fearless, reckless hero, 

So loved by the whole frontier, 
Had died on the field of battle 

In this our centennial year. 

I served with him in the army, 

In the darkest davs of the war ; 



THE DEATH OF CUSTER. 81 

And I reckon ye know his record, 

For he was our guiding star. 
And the boys who gathered round him 

To charge in the early morn, 
War just like the brave who perished 

With him on the Little Horn. 

And where is the satisfaction, 

And how are we going to get square ? 
By giving the Reds more rifles ? 

Invite them to take more hair ? 
We want no scouts, no trappers, 

Nor men who know the frontier ; 
Phil, old boy, you're mistaken — 

You must have the volunteer. 

They talk about peace with these demons 

By feeding and clothing them well ; 
I'd as soon think an angel from heaven 

Would reign with contentment in It. — 11 ; 
And some day these Quakers will answer 

Before the great Judge of us all, 
For the death of the daring young Custer, 

And the bovs who around him did fall. 



Perhaps I am judging them harshly, 

But I mean what I'm telling ye, pard ; 
I'm letting them down mighty easy — 

Perhaps they may think it is hard. 
But I tell ye the day is approaching — 

The boys are beginning to muster, 
That day of the great retribution — 

The day df revenge for our Custer 



THE POET SCOUT. 



And I will be with you, friend Cody, 

My mite will go in with the boys ; 
I shared all their hardships last Winter, 

I shared all their sorrows and joys; 
So tell them I'm coming, friend William, 

I trust I will meet you ere long ; 
Regards to the boys in the mountains, 

Yours truly, in friendship still strong. 




FAREWELL, OLD CABIN HOME. 

A/'E folks of fashion and renown, 
Who live in city and in town, 
And who, 'mid luxury and ease, 
Have everything the heart to please, 
And every morning take your ride 
'Mid worldly pomp and fashion's pride, 
At evening down the promenade 
With lovely girls and hearts all glad, 
And home — ah ! that must be divine — 
A little moss-grown hut is mine. 

Where the streamlet's merry lay 

Makes sweet music with its laughter, 

Dancing, rippling day by day — 
I shall hear it ever after. 

Where, from Harney's snow-clad crown, 
Many rills come dancing down, 
Where the speckled beauties glide 
Swiftly through the silvery tide, 
You may have your stall-fed steers — 
I have lots of mountain deers. 
You may have your hot-house greens, 
I the good old standard beans — 
Beans and pork. Sometimes he'd kill 
A buffalo bull, would Buffalo Bill ; 
Then with chicken, grouse and quail, 
And splendid soup from buffalo tail. 



84 



THE POET SCOUT. 



Oh ! how happy, gay and free 

O'er the mountains wild I roam- 
Bank stocks never trouble me 
In my little mountain home. 




Up the mountain, down the glen — 
Dangerous ? Only now and then. 
If a bear you want to court, 
Take her where the hair is short ; 
If you want a fond embrace, 
Meet old Bruin face to face. 
If she's strong with frame well knit, 
You'll find her most affectionate. 



Bears and buffalos, what care I — 
Catermounts may rave and foam ; 

I must leave you by and by, 
So farewell, old cabin home. 



FAREWELL, OLD CABIN HOME. 85 

Nature grand and wild and free, 
Full of life and ecstacy ; 
Courting nature, dead in love, 
Coo again, thou gentle dove ; 
Teach me, bird of paradise, 
How to thaw the lover's ice ; 
Make the blood within me boil — 
Man must love, or man must spoil; 
Tell me, how am I to love, 
And a maiden's fancy move? 

Will you miss me when I go — 

When away from you I roam ? 
If your nest should fill with snow 

You can take my cabin home. 

Good-bye, scenes of mountain bliss, 
Where the clouds, come down to kiss 
Crowning rocks and hiding trees, 
Until lifted with the breeze. 
Farewell, valley of my heart ! 
Time has come when we must part; 
Farewell, all thy sweet wild flowers ! 
All thy nooks and shady bowers — 
Never more my eyes can see 
Valley half so fair as thee. 

Valley, cabin, all farewell ! 

Oh, for one forget-me-not ! 
I would leave it in the dell — 

Plant it near this moss-grown cot. 

Castle Creek, Black Hills, June 25, 1S76. 



THE WELCOME HOME. 

TUTOME again! Each stalwart comrade 

Breathes his honest welcome back. 
" Dog my cats, we's glad to see you, 

Los-ee. Whar ye bin to, Jack? 
Why, old pard, we've bin a tbinkin', 

Somehow, ye had lost yer ha'r, 
An' you bet yer life, we missed ye 

At our meetin's over thar." 

Not one buckskin boy among them — 

Not a man in all that throng — 
But was glad to gaze upon me, 

I had been away so long. 
How my heart, with fond emotion, 

Beat that night at Modie's store, 
When the boys, with pure devotion, 

Gathered round their chief once more. 

There was Bob and Jule and Franklin, 

Bill and California Joe — 
Every man old Indian fighters, 

Knowing all a scout should know. 
But my songs and acts had won them, 

And amid their merry shouts, 
In the Buffalo Gap entrenchments, 

I was hailed their chief of scouts. 
86 



THE WELCOME HOME. 87 

Whether in the year succeeding 

I deserved the name or not, 
By our pioneers and miners 

I shall never be forgot. 
Never did the wily red-skin 

Find me napping by the way, 
And I tried to do my duty 

In the camp or in the fray. 



Custer City, D. T., October, 1876. 




MUSING. 

TO THE MAN OF INTELLECT. 

These verses were written in answer to an anonymous letter written by 
some one in Victoria, B. C, telling me to desist from imposing my doggerel 
on an intelligent newspaper public. 

"\ \ 7"HILE with various thoughts and feelings 

I am musing here to-night — 
Thoughts of other years of sorrow, 

Feelings of a heart more light. 
Musing still, and still I wonder 

What my future lot will be, 
While my soul is craving knowledge, 

Will not fortune smile on me ? 

Is there no poetic beauty 

In those simple songs of mine ? 
Must a man be bred in college 

Ere he dares to form a rhyme? 
Though his soul dictates the music, 

Yet his words, uncouth and plain, 
Must not find a friendly welcome 

From the learned man of brain. 

While my beating heart oft whispers 

Sweetest music to my soul, 
And I feel the strangest passion 

Which no mortal could control. 
83 



MUSING. 89 

Even 'neath the spreading branches 

I have caused my mates to start, 
Aye ! and list with awe and wonder 

To the songs which left my heart. 

Far away in wild Dakota, 

Hours I've stood upon the green, 
Spouting what I believed poetic, 

Only by my comrades seen, 
Reveling in nature's grandeur. 

Ah ! but those were happy days, 
For I believed I was a poet, 

And deserving of some praise. 

Yet, alas ! here comes a letter 

Telling me I must desist, 
Written by — perhaps George Francis — 

Such a s- Train was to his fist. 
Stop it, Jack — let reason guide you, 

Good advice you dare respect, 
And you'll get another letter 
From a man of intellect. 

Every man is not a classic, 

Most the laboring men can read — 
These at least peruse my verses, 

Sometimes even with a greed. 
Let me, then, a little longer 

Pass like this my idle hours ; 
Time will surely make me stronger — 

Spring must come to bring the flowers. 

In the Mountains, Cariboo, B. C, March 28, 1879. 



i a 




AMONG THE PEAKS. 

/^\H, gentle breeze, from sunny South, 

With scent of fragrant flowers, 
Warm again with thy heated breath 
These sovereign hills of ours. 

Burst forth in every mountain glen 
Where streams no longer flow, 

With sunny beams from azure sky, 
To melt the crusted snow. 



And onward from the boisterous sea 
Sweep clouds of tepid rain ; 

Let thunder be thy bugle call 
To free our hills again. 
90 



AMONG THE PEAKS. 91 

And when the distant roll is heard 

'Twill set each heart aglow, 
For many who have waited long 

Will see our streams o'erflow. 

Our hearts will greet the smiling sun, 

And bless the heavenly rain ; 
And hope, now dead, will come to life 

When Spring is here again. 

And hardy, honest sons of toil 
Will grasp their tools once more ; 

Hydraulic, drift and sluice again, 
As in the days of yore. 

And when the Summer time has come, 

With hearts and mountains free, 
Each day a stronger link will forge 

To bind our harmony. 

Cariboo, B. C, April 3, 1879. 



COMRADE, WHY THIS LOOK OF 
SADNESS? 

Written some years ago, to the late Charley Reynolds, Custer's bravest 
and best scout, who perished by his side on the Little Big Horn. 

/^OMRADE, why this look of sadness? 
^■^ What has caused this sudden change ? 
Why thus wander in the moonlight, 

Acting so uncommon strange ? 
Know that I would share thy sorrow, 

Even shed a tear with thee ; 
Sick or wounded would I leave you ? 

No ! nor would you part from me. 

Tell me, then ; I, too, have sorrow, 

But I drive it from my mind ; 
'Tis but folly thus to borrow 

Trouble from the midnight wind. 
Come, there's music at the barracks, 

We're having quite a hop to-night — 
Have a dance with little Jessie, 

And I'm sure you'll feel all right. 

No ? Ah, comrade, I can see it, 

Even though you will not tell ; 
You have loved with all your nature — 

Loved not wisely, but too well. 
This it is that makes you gloomy — 

Cuts you to the very core ; 
92 



COMRADE, WHY THIS LOOK OF SADXESSf 93 

But you must remember, Charley, 
There are very many more. 

So, at last, I've got your secret — 

Only one ? Indeed ! not more ? 
Me? Why man, that ain't a marker — 

I can count them by the score. 
Women — why, of course, they're fickle, 

But the men are fickle, too, 
And I'm sure the greater number 

Of the fairer sex are true. 

Yes, I had one little sweetheart ; 

Do you see that blackened spot ? 
There it was that I first met her 

In her father's little cot; 
And beside this mossy willow, 

When the skylark's music fell, 
Gertie told me how she loved me, 

'Mid the fragrance of the dell. 

While my arms were fondly twining 

Round her little form so fair, 
Bright blue eyes like diamonds shining, 

And the moonbeams kissed her hair — 
Then it was a silent arrow 

Pierced my little girl and I — 
Pierced her through the heart, God help me — 

Me to live and she to die. 

Here, beside this dear old willow, 
Where the flowers are growing wild, 

Rests old Bruce, the guide and trapper, 
With my love, his only child. 



94 THE POET SCOUT. 

Rest in peace, my little darling, 

There is joy in Heaven for you ; 
As for me — no peace, no resting, 
While there lives a single Sioux. 

Now, my boy, you know the reason 

Why I seek this spot alone, 
When the moon is up and shining, 

I can watch beside by own. 
Go, enjoy yourself — I cannot, 

While my angel sleeps close by. 
Hark ! get down — I see a scalp lock ! 

Not a word — he, too, must die. 

Death was silent in his mission — 

Not the faintest sound was heard ; 
While the scout, with cat-like motion, 

Moved as if he were a bird ; 
Then the flash of steel by moonlight — 

Not a word had yet been said ; 
But the brave young lover conquered — 

Scored another for the dead. 




UNDER THE SNOW. 

IN MEMOR1AM. 

\Lines on the death of T. R. PattuIJo.~\ 

T T NDER the snow we have laid him down- 
^ Down in the depths of the grave ! 
The dearest, kindest heart in the camp 

Has passed o'er eternity's wave. 
Gone forever ! alas, can it be, 

Will we never again see his face ? 
Never again clasp his honest hand, 

With its warm and earnest embrace? 

Under the snow in the golden land, 

So far from the home of his mother, 
No loving sister to close his eyes, 

But the hand of a faithful brother. 
God help that mother and sisters, too ! 

The news will be sad we know, 
" Our own dear boy in Cariboo 

Is dead and under the snow ! " 

" Dear mother — and now I speak for Tom — 

Dear mother, don't grieve for me, 
I've only laid me down to rest 

Beneath the old pine tree. 
So tired, dear mother, I needed rest, 

To sleep, to dream, to die ; 
And God does all things for the best. 

I'll meet you by and by. 
95 



g6 THE POET SCOUT. 



" Dear sisters, don't you weep for me, 

My rest is peaceful now ; 
I feel no pain, no troubled heart, 

Nor aches within my brow. 
This world was, oh ! so dreary, 

I found it colder grow, 
But now I feel quite happy, 

Beneath the pure white snow." 

Under the snow ! The setting sun 

Seemed bathed in tears to-day, 
And all are lonely in the camp 

Since Tom has passed away. 
And many were the heartfelt sobs, 

And many tears did flow, 
And charity round his faults we flung, 

With a mantle of pure white snow. 

Under the snow he sleeps to-day, 

Mourned by the sad rough throng, 
And just before he passed away 

He spoke of his favorite song, 
" Maid of Athens ! " beautiful maid ! 

There she stands at the door ! 
Ere we part — another verse, 

'Twill ring on the other shore. 

Under the snow the heart is still 

In death for ever more — 
The heart that never saw distress 

Go hungry from his door. 
And many, many will attest, 

Who left here long ago, 
The truest friend of all the rest 

Now sleeps beneath the snow. 



UNDER THE SNOW. 



97 



Under the snow ! He was no saint — 

Real saints are very few — 
But Tom was what we called a man, 

'Mongst men in Cariboo. 
And when old Gabriel blows his horn, 

And the world is at an end, 
The Lord will not forget the man 

Who's been the poor man's friend. 




THE DYING SCOUT. 

TO THE MEMORY OF MUGGINS TAYLOR, WHO WAS CUSTER'S 

COURIER. 

This song was sung at Emerson's Opera House for twenty-one nights w ith 
great success, by Beaumont Read, who wrote the music for it. 

/^OMRADES, raise me, I am dying, 
^-" Hark the story I will tell ; 
Break it gently to my mother, 

You were near me when I fell. 
Tell her how I fought with Custer, 

How I rode to tell the news ; 
Now I'm dying, comrades, dying — 

Tell me, did we whip the Sioux ? 

Chorus. 
Comrades, raise me, I am dying, 

Catch the story I will tell ; 
Break it gently to my mother, 

You were near me when I fell. 

Tell my mother that, when dying, 

Every scene came back anew — 
All those happy days of childhood, 

When life's cares I little knew. 
Tell her that I still remember 

How she wept for very joy 
When she clasped her arms around me, 

Welcomed home her soldier boy. 

Chorus — Comrades, raise me, etc. 
99 



THE POET SCOUT. 



Comrades, tell my mother truly 

How we fought to hold the hill ; 
Tell her how we gained the vict'ry — 

That I die a soldier still. 
Hark ! I hear a voice up yonder, 

All is sunshine, bright and fair ; 
Tell my mother I am dying — 

She will meet her boy up there. 

Chorus — Comrades, raise me, etc. 







SANDY'S REVENGE. 

a miner's strategy. 

i i T SAY, young feller, have something to take ? 
Yer a stranger to me, but I like yer style, 
And I reckin I met ye somewhar afore — 

Come, fellers, won't ye all have a smile? 
Ye see, I've jist come in from the mines, 
Where we fellers strike it rich sometimes." 

" Excuse me, sir, but I never drink, 
And I'm just as much obliged to you. 

I can't help it, sir, you may believe or not, 
But nevertheless I am telling you true. 

And, by the way, a word in your ear — 

You'll be drugged and robbed if you drink in here." 

He looked at me with his great blue eyes, 

And laughingly said : " That's a very good joke, 

I own a half," said he, " in the prize," 

And looking around on the crowd as he spoke, 

" I've got enough in my buckskin, I think, 

To treat the house. Come, every one, drink. 

" And see here, youngster, you take a cigar. 

The other bottle — I mean the brandy. 
Well, here's how — what might be my name ? 

Wall, it might be Jim, but they call me Sandy. 
And I don't know much 'bout books and sich, 
But what's the odds when a feller's rich ? 

IOI 



THE POET SCOUT. 



" Do I want a bed ? Wall, I reckin I do, 
And I want a good'n, ye bet yer life. 

Come, set 'em up agin for the crew ; 
AVhat's that ye say — hev I got a wife? 

Well, now yer shouten — why, bless yer soul, 

My Jennie's the trimmest gal of the whole. 

" Me gettin' full ? Is that what ye said ? 

Wall, I reckin I am. I'll go pretty soon ; 
An', landlord, when I get up to bed, 

Send me a night- cap up ter my room. 
An' don't you forget it — I want it strong, 
So I kin sleep on it, soundly an' long." 

"Good-night !" he said, as he passed me by, 
And I saw a smile on his sun-burnt face ; 

And he gave me a wink as he passed me by, 
And whispered : " If ye kin find the place, 

Jist come to my room between twelve and one, 

And I reckin as how we kin have some fun." 

It was nearly twelve when he said good-night, 

So I quietly left, as if to go home, 
And turning quickly round to the right, 

At a corner window I saw him alone, 
With a navy revolver in either hand, 
He fixed them, and laid them down on the stand. 

I climbed the porch ; it was rather dark, 

So 1 very soon got up to the top. 
I tapped at the window and made a noise, 

When he motioned that I should stop. 
Too late — the light was turned out quite, 
And he whispered : " I'll play her alone to-night." 



SAND Y'S REVENGE. 



103 



Five minutes ! and each to me seemed an hour, 

But at last the silence was broke ; 
A heavy thud — then a leaden shower — 

And the little room full of fire and smoke. 
A light was struck, and there on the floor 
Lay landlord and son, to move no more. 




"GOD BLESS YE, GENER'L CROOK." 

An old miner in the Black Hills came into the Scout's Camp one afternoon 
in September, 1876, tired and hungry. He had been on a prospecting trip, 
and ran short of provisions. After he had partaken of some coffee, hard 
tack and beans, he saw General Crook conversing with his aide-de-camp, 
Lieut. Schuyler, when he exclaimed: « By gosh, I've see'd thet face 
afore," and, walking over toward the General, he discovered who he was. 
He returned to the camp fire and told how the General, with a detachment 
of soldiers, had saved the lives of his wife and boy. The incident was so 
pretty that I wrote the following verses on it the same evening, and gave the 
old miner a copy of it. His hand trembled with emotion, and the tears 
coursed down his bronzed cheeks when he read it. 

" DY gosh, I ar' as hungry 

As a prairie wolf, you bet, 
An' pards, I won't forget ye, 

An' am moughty glad we met. 
Ye see, I've been terprospec', 

An' I lost my latitud'. 
Los'ee, but I war hungry, 

Them beans war moughty good. 

"I've see'd thet face afore, pards — 

Can't say as how I know, 
My eyes ain't wot they us' ter war 

'Bout fifteen year ago. 
But, dog my cats, I'll swar it, 

Let's take a closer sight- 
Bless, if it arn't the Gener'l! 

I knew I must be right." 
104 



" GOD BLESS YE, GENERAL CROOK." 105 

And then a pearly tear drop 

Stood in the old man's eye. 
" Ye know I've pray'd ter see him 

Jist once afore I'd die ; 
He saved my wife and baby 

When the red-skins had 'em took." 
With outstretched hand he, sobbing, said : 

" God bless ye, Gener'l Crook ! " 

" I reckin ye don't remember 

Old Bill as run the mail 
Way down in Arizony, 

When ye war on the trail; 
An' how thet frosty mornin' 

Ye saved my Tommy's life, 
An' took a heap o' chances — 

She told me — Jane, my wife. 

" I warn't thar to thank ye 

When I heerd the story through, 
'Cause that war all I had ter give, 

An' all as I could do; 
An', Gener'l, if ye want me, 

'Tain't much as I kin do, 
But, dog my cats, I'm ready 
To trump death's ace for you." 



THE OLD TRAPPER'S RELIGION. 

[" AIN'T goin' ter preach ye a sermon, 
Nor I ain't goin' ter sing ye a song, 
An' I reckin as how ye won't think so, 

If I don't draw my story too long ; 
But I am list from the church in the city, 
Whar I hear'n the good parson man tell 
'Bout the psalmrsingers' home up in Heaven, 
An' the sinners' hot lay out in hell. 

I didn't at first understan' him ; 

Ye see, I sot back nigh the door, 
With my leg drew way inter a tunnel, 

An' my slouch layin' fiat on the floor ; 
But, somehow, his words set me thinkin', 

An' it worried me ever so long, 
Till I dropped on the settled conclusion 
Thet he drawed it a little too strong. 

Sez he, ye must all get religion, 

An' stay with the rules o' the church, 
Else, sure, on the great day o' judgment 

Ye'U surely git left in the lurch. 
Sez he, now's the day o' salvation, 

For why do ye weaken and wait ? 
Fly from that trail strew'd with pleasure, 

It leads right direct to hell's gate. 
ic6 



THE OLD TRAPPER'S RELIC, VOX. 107 

Then I ax'd myself, what is this racket 

That he seems so dead earnest about ? 
Is it sittin' close up near the pulpit 

To jine in the general shout? 
Is it wearin' a face like a bean-pole, 

Chippin' in with a lusty amen, 
An' loafin' around in the temple 

While the beggar lies sick in a pen ? 

Ar' these psalm-singin' nabobs religious, 

'Cause they pray in a satin-lined box, 
An' all the time durin' the preachin' 

Keep plannin' their next steal in stocks ? 
Do ye think as they'll waltz inter glory 

Because they're mixed with the flock? 
Not much ! They'll git left on the margin, 

For Christ will go down to bed rock. 

In course, they're looked on as Christians, 

Tho' they gamble all week on the Board, 
They freely come down with the wherewith 

To help on the cause of the Lord. 
But I think at the call of old Gabriel 

They'll have nothin' but wildcat to sell ; 
They'll drop from the Stock Board in Heaven 

Clear down to the furnace — ah, well. 

Ar' the poor folks all bound to perdition 

That labor and toil day by day 
For yer gilt-edged Sunday professors — 

Like Duncan* — on starvation pay? 

* J. C. Duncan, manager of the Pioneer Bank, San Francisco, who was a pillar o. 
the church, and stole $2,000,000 from the depositors. 



io8 THE POET SCOUT. 

Ar' they bound to take lodgin's with Satan, 
While Duncan, the deacon, steals all ? 

An' pays with the sweat of the poor man 
The price for a sanctified stall. 

Ar' they to be damn'd inter torment, 
An' driv through unquenchable flames, 
'Cause the big book in front o' the pulpit 
Don't happen ter show up thar names ? 
Is the devil a goin' for to yank 'em 

To his kingdom of fire down below, 
Jist 'cause they don't jine in yer meetin's, 
And work in the very same row ? 

In short, can't a man as lives honest, 

An' don't take the devil inside 
(For no man kin be a good Christian 

An' yet from his sideboard imbibe). 
If he does every day to his neighbor 

As he'd have thet same neighbor to do, 
Won't he fare jist as well at the clean-up 

As if worth a million or two ? 

The churches are good institutions; 

I like to hear good preachers tell 
'Bout Christ and the good o' religion, 

But they ought ter preach temp' ranee as well : 
'Cause rum's the stronghold o' the devil, 

An' a man as drinks never kin win, 
'Cause he never kin keep himself level, 

Since rum is a cuss and a sin. 

But I tell ye, a man as lives honest, 
If he never hears tell o' the church, 



THE OLD TRAPPER'S RELIGIOX. 



109 



Kin just be as happy hereafter, 
And roost on the heavenly perch ; 

We're all in the way o' temptation, 
Thar's no one who's free from all sin ; 

But Christ won't go back on us poor folks 
If we do jist the best that we kin. 





CUSTER CITY. 



"NEVER GIVE UP THE SHIP!" 



In the Spring of 1875, in Custer City, at the time I wrote the following 
verses, I was, to say the least, sick and tired of the mountains. I had just 

nursed to life old Charley S , from Chicago, an old forty-niner (who 

was always kind to me), while a man named Hughes lay on one of my 
bunks, his arm shattered by a bullet from the wrist to the muscle, and Jule 
Seminole, one of my scouts, a faithful Cheyenne warrior, lay on the other 
bunk, with pneumonia. I had hard work to watch Jule. If I ever left the 

1 10 



•NEVER GIVE UP THE SHIP!" 



cabin during the day, and the sun was shining, he would be sure to jump 
out of bed, run around the cabin with only a single blanket thrown around 
him, and squat right down on a log or stone, his moccasin feet in the melt- 
ing snow ; and when I tried to reason with him, and scold him for exposing 
himself, he would look at me with his great brown eyes, shake his head and 
say: "You heap good tome; me know you like I get well. But me no 
like white man's medicine. Too much bad taste. Sun heap better big 
medicine." He always returned to his bunk, however, and finally got well 
again, and proved his devotion to me afterwards on many occasions, never 
losing sight of me while on the trail. Hughes had a little boy nine years 
old, who relieved me occasionally, and watched while I slept. I never took 
my clothes off, night or day, except to change my underwear, for I only had 
a buffalo robe and one blanket, which I spread on the damp sawdust floor ; 
and only for a strong constitution and temperate habits, I, too, would have 
been laid up. One evening, a merchant, who had just come in the Hills, 
called to see me, and when I told him how I was situated, how I had to hunt 
for my meat, and how discouraged I was beginning to feel, he remarked : 
" Never get down-hearted, Jack — never give tip the ship ! " And, although 
he was well off in this world's goods, he never offered me a pound of tea or 
a piece of bacon. After he left my cabin, while my single tallow candle cast 
a sickly light upon the smoked logs, I wrote " never give up the ship ! " 



i( IV T EVER give up the ship, old boy ! 

Said a friend to me to-night ; 
" But jog along with a manly step, 

And with spirits always light ; 
Laugh with a hearty will, old boy, 
And wait for the turn of the tide, 
For this is a beautiful world of ours — 
So, Jack, let your troubles slide." 



How easy it is for him to say 
" Never give up the ship! " 

While thinking of a gas-lit home, 
And I with a tallow dip, 

Ensconsed in my little log caboose, 
The wolf and the snow at the door ; 



THE POET SCOUT. 



I wish I could give up the craft, 
I'd sail in her no more. 

." Never give up the ship ! " he said, 

This friend! I could almost curse; 
With love and friends and a happy home — 

Ah ! yes, and a bottomless purse. 
How easy it is for him to say, 

" There's better luck in store," 
When hunger and sickness pass by 

And knock at another's door. 

When home for him is a safe retreat, 

And nothing to worry or fret, 
While I in the snow must hunt my meat — - 

Or what? Why, starve, you bet. 
Two comrades wounded, sick and sore, 

Are stretched on the bunks beside, 
While I shake down on the sawdust floor 

And wake with a sore marked hide. 

Old Charley has just got well ! 

He told me I saved his life, 
And how I loved to hear him tell 

Of his home and his dear good wife, 
And how, if ever I went back East, 

His folks I must call and see.* 
Then, old boy, we will have a feast. 

And drink your good health in tea. 

Well, I don't intend to give up the ship, 
But I wish I could find a canoe, 



*I visited old Charley's home, in Chicago, in 1876, while in that city, with the first 
substantia! evidence of gold-bearing quartz from the Black Hills. 



"NEVER GIVE UP THE SHIP!" 113 

And we were two hundred miles from here, 

On the banks of the old Mossu — 
I reckon we'd float, would Jule and I, 

Though we worked our venison raw, 
And never let up till we gazed once more 

On the spires of Omaha. 



J&S? saws C1?f 

4 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL 
TRAPPER. 

A CAMP FIRE REMINISCENCE. 

About the middle of April, 1876, I received a note from California Joe, 
•who had a fine ranche on Rapid Greek, and was trying to induce new comers 
to settle there and build a town, to be called Rapid City. The note was 
written in lead pencil, and ran thus : 

Rapid, April 10, 1876. 

My Dear Jack : — If you can be spared for a week from Custer, come over and 
bring Jule and Frank Smith with you. The reds have been raising merry old h— 11, 
and, after wounding our herder and a miner named Sherwood, got away with eight 
head of stock, my old Bally with the rest. There are only ten of us here, all told, and 
I think if you can come with the two boys, we can lay for them at the lower falls, and 
gobble 'em next time. Answer by bearer if you can't come ; and send me fifty rounds 
of cartridges for the Sharps— bier fifty. Hoping this will find you with your top-knot 
still waving, I remain as ever, your pard, Joe. 

I immediately saw Major Wynkoop, commanding the Rangers, got his 
permission, and arrived at Rapid Creek on the following night, with four 
comrades besides myself. After two clays' and nights' watching at the lower 
falls, Jule Seminole, one of my scouts, a Cheyenne, came in at dusk and 
informed us that there were between twenty and thirty Indians encamped at 
the box elder, about twenty miles away, and that they were coming from the 
direction of the Big Cheyenne, and would probably move to Rapid during 
the night. Jule could almost invariably tell just what an Indian was going 
to do if he could get his eyes on him, and he was correct in this instance. 
About three o'clock next morning Joe went up to his cabin and started a big 
log fire; also two other fires in different cabins. These cabins were over a 
mile from where we were in ambush, while our horses were all picketed a 
quarter of a mile down the creek, which was narrow at its point of entrance 
from the prairie, but widened into a beautiful river half a mile up. Just as 
day was breaking, one of the Indians was discovered by Frank Smith wad- 
ing up the creek. Frank reported to Joe and I, and Joe remarked : " Let 
him go — he will soon signal the others to follow." In fifteen minutes more 
the shrill bark of a coyotte proved Joe's judgment to be correct. Twenty- 

114 






1 ii; 




$f< 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 



1 16 THE POET SCOUT. 

three well-armed Indians — Sioux — rode up along the willow bank in Indian 
file. There were seventeen of us, Zeb Swaringen and Ned Baker, two 
old miners, having joined us the night before. We had six men on one side, 
near an opening, where we knew the Indians would break for on receiving our 
fire from the opposite side ; and farther up, when the Indians had got par- 
allel with our main body, we took aim as best we could in the gray of the 
morning, and fired nearly together ; then, before they recovered, gave them 
another volley, and, leaving our cover, followed on foot those who did not 
stay with us. We were disappointed in their taking the opening, but the 
boys were in fair range, and did good work, killing one, wounding two, and 
unhorsing three others, who took to the woods. We got fifteen ponies, our 
first fire never touching horse hair, but emptying several saddles. Out of 
the twenty-three Indians, fifteen escaped. Joe killed three himself with his 
big Sharp's rifle, the last one being nearly five hundred yards away when he 
fired from a rest off Frank Smith's shoulder. Joe had a piece taken out of 
his left thigh, Franklin was wounded in the left arm, and the writer slightly 
scratched near the guard of the right arm. Nobody was seriously hurt, and 
we had eight scalps to crown our victory. But I did not intend, when I com- 
menced, to write all these particulars ; I merely intended to speak of a camp 
fire story, as told by Joe at the camp fire on the night following the incident 
related. The following lines, as nearly as I can recollect, tell the story of 
Joe's courtship and marriage. I must add that Joe was killed at Red Cloud, 
in December the same year, while acting as Black Hills guide. He was a 
brave, generous, unselfish man, and his only fault was liquor. Now for the 
story : 

A \J ELL, mates, I don't like stories, 

Nor am I going to act 
A part around this camp fire 

That ain't a truthful fact. 
So fill your pipes and listen, 

I'll tell you— let me see, 
I think it was in fifty, 

From that till sixty-three. 

You've all heard tell of Bridges, 

I used to run with Jim, 
And many a hard day's scouting 

I've done 'longside of him. 



CALIFORNIA JOE AXD THE GIRL TRAPPER. 117 

Well, once, near old Fort Reno, 

A trapper used to dwell; 
We called him old Pap Reynolds — 

The scouts all knew him well. 







One night — the Spring of fifty — 

We camped on Powder river, 
We killed a calf of buffalo, 

And cooked a slice of liver ; 
While eating, quite contented, 

We heard three shots or four; 
Put out the fire and listened, 

Then heard a dozen more. 



We knew that old man Reynolds 

Had moved his traps up here ; 
So, picking up our rifles 

And fixing on our gear, 
We mounted quick as lightnin', 

To save was our desire. 
Too late ; the painted heathens 

Had set the house on fire. 



i iS THE POET SCOUT. 

We tied our horses quickly, 

And waded up the stream; 
While close beside the water 

I heard a muffled scream. 
And there among the bushes 

A little girl did lie. 
I picked her up and whispered : 

" I'll save you, or I'll die. 1 '" 

Lord, what a ride! old Bridger, 

He covered my retreat. 
Sometimes the child would whisper, 

In voice so low and sweet : 
" Poor papa, God will take him 

To mamma up above; 
There's no one left to love me — 

There's no one left to love." 

The little one was thirteen, 

And I was twenty-two. 
Said I : " I'll be your father, 

And love you just as true." 
She nestled to my bosom, 

Her hazel eyes, so bright, 
Looked up and made me happy, 

Though close pursued that night. 

A month had passed, and Maggie 

(We called her Hazel Eye), 
In truth, was going to leave me — 

Was going to say "good-bye." 
Her uncle, mad Jack Reynolds — 

Reported long since dead — 
Had come to claim my angel, 

His brother's child, he said. 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 119 

What could I say ? We parted. 

Mad Jack was growing old ; 
I handed him a bank-note 

And all I had in gold. 
They rode away at sunrise, 

I went a mile or two, 
And, parting, said: "We'll meet again — 

May God watch over you." 

Beside a laughing, dancing brook, 

A little cabin stood, 
As, weary with a long day's scout, 

I spied it in the wood. 
A pretty valley stretched beyond, 

The mountains towered above, 
While near the willow bank I heard 

The cooing of a dove. 

'Twas one grand panorama, 

The brook was plainly seen, 
Like a long thread of silver 

In a cloth of lovely green. 
The laughter of the waters, 

The cooing of the dove, 
Was like some painted picture — 

Some well-told tale of love. 

While drinking in the grandeur, 

And resting in my saddle, 
I heard a gentle ripple 

Like the dipping of a paddle. 
I turned toward the eddy — 

A strange sight met my view : 
A maiden, with her rifle, 

In a little bark canoe. 



THE POET SCOUT. 



She stood up in the centre, 

The rifle to her eye ; 
I thought (just for a second) 

My time had come to die. 
I doffed my hat and told her 

(If it was all the same) 
To drop her little shooter, 

For I was not her game. 

She dropped the deadly weapon, 
And leaped from the canoe. 

Said she : " I beg your pardon, 
I thought you were a Sioux ; 

Your long hair and your buckskin 
Looked warrior-like and rough; 

My bead was spoiled by sunshine, 
Or I'd killed you, sure enough." 

" Perhaps it had been better 

You dropped me then," said I ; 
" For surely such an angel 

"Would bear me to the sky." 
She blushed and dropped her eyelids, 

Her cheeks were crimson red ; 
One half-shy glance she gave me, 

And then hung down her head. 

I took her little hand in mine — 

She wondered what I meant, 
And yet she drew it not away, 

But rather seemed content. 
We sat upon the mossy bank — 

Her eyes began to fill — 
The brook was rippling at our feet, 

The dove was cooing still. 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 

I smoothed her golden tresses, 

Her eyes looked up in mine, 
She seemed in doubt — then whispered : 

" 'Tis such a long, long time 
Strong arms were thrown around me — 

F 11 save you, or I'll die." 
I clasped her to my bosom — 

My long-lost Hazel Eye. 

The rapture of that moment 

Was almost heaven to me. 
I kissed her 'mid her tear-drops, 

Her innocence and glee. 
Her heart near mine was beating, 

While sobbingly she said : 
" My dear, my brave preserver, 

They told me you were dead. 

" But, oh ! those parting words, Joe, 

Have never left my mind. 
You said : ' We'll meet again, Mag,' 

Then rode off like the wind. 
And, oh ! how I have prayed, Joe, 

For you, who saved my life, 
That God would send an angel 

To guard you through all strife. 

" And he who claimed me from you, 

My uncle, good and true — 
Now sick in yonder cabin — 

Has talked so much of you. 
' If Joe were living, darling,' 

He said to me last night, 
' He would care for Maggie 

When God puts out my light.' " 



THE POET SCOUT. 



We found the old man sleeping. 

" Hush ! Maggie, let him rest." 
The sun was slowly sinking 

In the far-off glowing west ; 
And, tho' we talked in whispers, 

He opened wide his eyes. 
" A dream — a dream ! " he murmured, 

" Alas ! a dream of lies ! '' 

She drifted like a shadow 

To where the old man lay. 
" You had a dream, dear uncle — 

Another dream to-day ?" 
" Oh, yes; I saw an angel, 

As pure as mountain snow, 
And near her, at my bed-side, 

Stood California Joe." 

" I'm sure Fm not an angel, 

Dear uncle, that you know ; 
These arms are brown, my hands, too — 

My face is not like snow. 
Now, listen, while I tell you, 

For I have news to cheer, 
And Hazel Eye is happy, 

For Joe is truly here." 

And when, a few days after, 

The old man said to me : 
" Joe, boy, she ar' a angel, 

An' good as angels be. 
For three long months she's hunted 

An' trapped an' nurs'd me, too; 
God bless ye, boy ! I believe it — 

She's safe along wi' you." 



CALIFORNIA JOE AND THE GIRL TRAPPER. 123 

The sun was slowly sinking 

When Mag (my wife) and I 
Came riding through the valley, 

The tear-drops in her eye. 
" One year ago to-day, Joe — 

I see the mossy grave — 
We laid him 'neath the daisies, 

My uncle, good and brave." 

And, comrades, every Spring-time 

Was sure to find me there — 
A something in that valley 

Was always fresh and fair. 
Our loves were newly kindled 

While sitting by the stream, 
Where two hearts were united 

In love's sweet, happy dream. 





HUNTING THE BUFFALO. 



BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. 

TO BUFFALO BILL. 

The following verses on the life and death of poor old Buffalo Chips are 
founded entirely on facts. His death occurred on Septembers, 1876, at Slim 
Buttes. Ke was within three feet of me when he fell, uttering the words 
credited to him below. 

T^HE evenin' sun was settin', droppin' slowly in the west, 
An' the soldiers, tired an' tuckered, in the camp would 

find that rest 
Which the settin' sun would bring 'em, for they marched since 

break o' day — 
Not a bite to eat 'cept horses as war killed upon the way ; 
For, ye see, our beans an' crackers, an' our pork war outen sight, 
An' the boys expected rashuns when they struck our camp that 

night ; 
For a little band had started for to bring some cattle on, 
An' they struck an Indian village, which they captured jist at 

dawn. 

Wall, I war with that party when we captured them ar' Sioux, 
An' we quickly sent a courier to tell old Crook the news. 
Old Crook ! I should say Gener'l, cos he war with the boys — 
Shared his only hard-tack, our sorrows and our joys; 
An' thar is one thing sartin — he never put on style. 
He'd greet the scout or soldier with a social kinder smile, 
An' that's the kind o' soldier as the prairy likes to get, 
An' every man would trump death's ace for Crook or Miles, 
you bet. 

125 



I 2 6 THE POE T SCO I T T. 



But I'm kinder off the racket, cos these Gener'ls gets enough 
0' praise 'ithout my chippin', so I'll let up on that puff; 
For I want ter tell a story 'bout a mate of mine as fell, 
Cos I loved the honest feller, an' he did his dooty well; 
Buffalo Chips we call'd him, but his other name was White ; 
I'll tell ye how he got that name, an' reckon I am right. 
You see, a lot of big-bugs and officers came out 
One time to hunt th' buffaler, an' fish for speckled trout. 

Wall, little Phil. — ye've heerd on him, a dainty little cuss 

As rode his charger twenty miles to stop a little muss. 

Well, Phil, he said ter Jonathin, whose other name was 

White ; 
"You go an' find them buffaler, an' see you get 'em right." 
So White he went an' found 'em, an' he found 'em sech a band 
As he sed would set 'em crazy, and little Phil, looked bland ; 
But when the outfit halted, one bull was all war there, 
Then Phil, he call him " Buffalo Chips," an' swore a little 

sware. 

Wall, White he kinder liked it, cos the Gener'l called him Chips 
An' he us'ter to wear two shooters in a belt above his hips. 
Then he said : " Now, look ye Gener'l, since ye've called me 

that ar' name, 
Jist around them little sand-hills is yer dog-gone pesky game." 
But when the hunt war over, an' the table spread for lunch, 
The Gener'l called for glasses, an' wanted his in punch ; 
An' when the punch was punished, the Gener'l smacked his lips> 
While squar' upon the table sot a dish o' Buffalo Chips. 

The Gener'l looked confounded, an' he also looked for White, 
But Jonathin he reckon 'd it war better he should lite ; 
So he skinned across the prairy, cos, ye see, he didn't mind 
A chippin any longer while the Gener'l saw the blind, 



BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. 127 

Fur the Gener'l would a-raised him, if he'-d jist held up his hand, 
But he thought he wouldn't see him, cos he didn't hev the sand, 
An' he rode as fast — aye, faster, than the Gener'l did that day, 
Like lightnin' down from Winchester, some twenty miles away. 

Well, White he had no cabin, an' no home ter call his own, 
So Buffaler Bill he took him an' shared with him his home. 
An' how he loved Bill Cody ! By gosh ! it war a sight 
Ter see him watch his shadder an' foller him at night, 
Cos Bill war kinder hated by a cussed gang o' thieves 
As carried pistols in thar belts and bowies in thar sleeves ; 
An' Chips he never left him for fear he'd get a pill, 
Nor would he think it moughty hard to die for Buffalo Bill. 

We us'ter mess together — that ar' Chips an' Bill an' me ; 

An' ye oughter watch his movements; it would do ye good ter 

see 
How he us'ter cook them wittles, an' gather lots o' greens 
To mix up with the juicy pork, an' them unruly beans. 
An' one cold, chilly mornin' he bought a lot o' corn, 
An' a little flask o' likker as cost fifty cents a horn. 
Tho' forty yards war nowhar, it war finished soon, ye bet ; 
But, friends, \ promised someone, and I'm strong teetotal yet. 

It war twenty-fourth o' August, in the last Centennial year. 

We bid farewell to Cody an' gave a hearty cheer ; 

An' Chips said, lookin' after : " I may never see him more, 

Nor meet him in his cabin as I us'ter do of yore, 

Whar I us'ter take his babies and buy each one a toy, 

An' play with them ar' younkers jist like a great big boy." 

An' when the cold lead struck him — " Jack, boy," said he, 

" You tell — " 
He stopped, then said : " Bless Cody, the babies — all — farewell." 



■*^& 



-H». 




DEATH OF BUFFALO CHIPS AT SLIM BUTTES. 



BUFFALO CHIPS, THE SCOUT. 129 

He's sleepin' in the mountains, near a little runnin' brook, 
Thar's not a soul to see him, 'cept the angels take a look, 
Or a butterfly may linger on his grave at early morn — 
No mortal eye may see it till old Gabriel toots his horn ; 
For we laid him 'neath the foot trail that the Sioux might never 

know, 
h% they'd dig him up and scalp him if they had the slightest 

show ; 
An' we marched two thousand footmen and horsemen o'er his 

breast — 
Without a stone to mark the spot, we left the scout to rest. 

An' then I sent a telegraph and tol' Bill he war dead ; 

I'll give in full his answer', an' this war what he said : 

" Poor White, he war my truest friend. My wife and children, 

too, 
Have wept as if he war our own. An', Jack, I ask of you 
To write a little verse for us in mem'ry o' poor White." 
So that war Cody's telegraph, an' that is why I write ; 
But los'ee, my book-larnin' ar' shaky for a bard — 
I can't jist do him justice, but Heaven holds his reward. 



%1F 



THE FIRST THAT DIED. 

About 8 o'clock one evening, in the Winter of 1875, while I was washing 
the dishes after supper in my cabin, two travelers entered, hungry, weary 
and footsore. After preparing supper, and giving them a warm corner by 
the glowing log fire, they told the following story: The elder man, John A. 
Byers, formerly Captain of a company in a Maryland regiment, started from 
Sioux City for the Hills, and was joined next day by his companion, Char- 
ley — a boy about eighteen years of age. They had traveled five hundred 
miles, carrying their provisions and blankets, and, after escaping a hundred 
dangers, reached Custer City almost exhausted. They stayed at my cabin 
for nearly a week, when Byers went to Deadwood. Charley remained 
and went to work building himself a shelter. In company with another boy 
they dug a hole in the ground, about two feet and a half deep, and then car- 
ried poles on their shoulders with which they made a roof, making their dug- 
out about three logs high all round. After covering the roof with boughs 
they spaded about two feet of clay on the top. Two nights after, the roof 
broke through, killing Charley outright, and nearly killing his companion. 
The saddest point about this affecting incident was, that no letters, papers, or 
even the slightest clue to his home or friends could be found; all that we 
knew was that he had walked all the way from Sioux City to the Black Hills 
to die and start a graveyard. On that day, while sitting on the green beside 
his demolished cabin, I wrote these lines : 

T300R Charley braved the wintry storms, 

And footed it all the way ; 
And now he is a bleeding corpse — 

He died at dawn to-day. 
His is the old, old story — 

He saw bright prospects here ; 
He left his home, his friends and all — 

Perhaps a mother dear. 

If so, God pity that mother, 
Perhaps alone and poor, 



THE FIRST THAT DIED. 131 

When some one breaks the blighting news 

Her heart will break I'm sure. 
To think she never, never more 

Will clasp him to her breast ; 
Among the peaks in Custer Park 

Poor Charley now must rest. 

Comrades here in the golden land 

Will drop a silent tear 
For those poor Charley left behind — 

A sister or mother dear. 
Perhaps some blue-eyed little girl, 

With sunshine on her brow, 
Is down upon her bended knees 

And praying for him now. 

Down in the glade beside the brook 

Our boy shall sleep to-morrow; 
His weary march of life is o'er, 

Now free from care and sorrow. 
And while wc think of home, and love, 

And better days in store, 
We humbly pray to Him above, 

And bow to Heaven once more. 




OUR "JACK." 

IN MEMORIAM. 

Lines written on the death of John Bilsland, who was killed by a slide 
of snow while attempting to get it off the shaft house on Burns' Creek, 
Cariboo, March 13th, 1S79. 

AND still they go, the very best, 

Cut down in their youth and bloom. 
There's something amiss in this region of ours, 
I reckon we must have offended the powers, 
For the Lord is culling our favorite flowers, 

And another is laid in the tomb; 
Another is laid 'neath the sod to rest — 
Killed before life had its noon. 

I have seen, sometimes, on the battlefield, 

The pride of our company fall, 
But I never felt as I did that day 
When they told me that Jack had passed away — 
Jack who was always happy and gay, 

And one who would spend his all. 
Prospecting deep, taking chances of yield, 

He would stand with his boys or fall. 

Escaping the perils of land and sea, 

Unharmed for many a year, 
And standing now by the shaft-house door, 
As oft he stood in the days of yore ; 
Then up the ladder, on roof once more, 

A man who knew no fear. 
Then down with the cruel snow went he — 

No friend, no comrade near. 
132 



Om "JACK." 133 

A good yet peculiar man was Jack, 

And a thoroughbred mountaineer; 
No matter what hurt, he would never squeal — 
His name was honor, and true as steel — 
And his comrades say he could build a wheel 

You could turn with a single tear; 
You smile — but I reckon I'm on the track, 
Which to look at his work would appear. 

One characteristic I want to note, 

Though he had no child of his own, 
How the children all to Jack would come 
And say : " Uncle Jat, has oou dot some dum ?" 
" No, but you bet I'll get you some." 

And his eyes with rapture shone, 
And voice like a chime of bells afloat, 
With music in each tone. 

The best mechanic, without a doubt 

(And I believe I can see it now), 
Perhaps they have struck it rich up there; 
And hunting in vain, they could not scare 
A man who could build a wheel to compare 

With Jack. So, to show them how, 
The angel of death put his light right out, 

And I reckon he's there with them now. 

All I can say, I must wish him well, 
If he's taken some heavenly stock 

For a prospect there on the heavenly shore, 

Is better than millions of gold in store. 

And they say there are chances for millions more, 
Who can find (if they try) the bed rock — 

That rock of ages, which yields so well, 

And Christ is the key to the lock. 
March 27th, 1879. 



MY IDEAS. 

While in Barkerville, B. C, a certain California expert condemned the 
quartz, and said we had no ledges. I wrote the following verses, which I 
recited to the miners at the Theatre Royal amid great applause. 

"DARKER, I love thy rustic hills, 
I love thy streams and bowers ; 
I've lingered near thy rippling rills, 

And gathered sweetest flowers ; 
And down thy wondrous valleys, 

And up -each snow-clad peak, 
I've wandered where the roses 

Of nature's grandeur speak. 

Oh ! where in God's creation, 

Can we poor people go, 
And find a better prospect, 

Than these our croppings show ? 
And tell me, oh ! ye experts, 

From whence the millions come, 
That rolled out in the sluices, 

Since Barker got its name? 

And if there are no ledges. 

In this little world of ours, 
Go cast aside your sledges, 

And pluck your budding flowers. 
Go draw your stakes and burn them, 

And cache your mining tools, 
And tell the whole creation 

That you're a set of fools. 
J34 



MY IDEAS. 135 



And then, when you have vanished, 

Some kid-gloved millionaire 
Will step into your country 

And call it wondrous fair. 
And ere your hair is silvered, 

The news will come to you : 
" The world has nothing richer 

Than the mines of Cariboo." 




THE OLD MINER. 

TO THE BOYS OF CARIBOO. 

'S a miner, I ar', an' a good un. 
It's nigh onto forty year 
Since first I landed at Frisco, 

A youngster — with lots o' good cheer; 
I waltzed right inter the placer 

An' struck it — you bet yer boots. 
But I dropped it a buckin' the tiger, 
Along with some other galoots. 

But that didn't dampen my ardor. 

Ye see I war hearty an' strong, 
An' I know'd by exertin' my muscle, 

I'd fetch it agin afore long ; 
So back to the diggin's I traveled, 

But somehow about that time 
There war heaps of the boys sick with fever, 

While I took ague in mine. 

Wall, I thinned right down to a wafer, 

My clothes war too big for my chest, 
I could made a respectable great coat 

By jist tuckin' sleeves in my vest ; 
But the diggin's war very onhealthy, 

An' so for a permanent cure 
I struck for high ground on the mountains 

For pastures, not greener, but newer. 
136 



THE OLD MINER. 137 



Now here's where I thought that I struck it, 

This time it war quartz as I found, 
An' so I kept pokin' an' gaddin' 

Till one day a stranger come round, 
An' told me as how he war huntin 

A permanent place to reside ; 
An' so I sez, " Here ar' my fortin, 

And plenty for you, pard, beside." 

He stayed with me two weeks, then wilted ; 

Said he, pard, I've bin thar afore, 
It 'taint no use workin' for nothin', 

An' for grub we war nigh run ashore ; 
So he left me ; an' bout a week after 

Another corned joggin' along 
With plenty o' grub. So I sold out ; 

He bought me for — well, just a song. 

Now I never did swar, 'taint my nater, 

But Lord, when I heerd o' their game, 
I reckin the air smelt o' brimstone — 

Wall, swarin ar' too mild a name. 
This rooster (who'd bin thar afore, mind) 

War an expert from 'Frisco, ye see ; 
So he skinned out, and sent his stool pidgeon 

To work that bonanza for me. 

Since then I've been down on these experts, 

Like him as has been here with you, 
He corned like the rest do from 'Frisco, 

An' hark ye — condemned Cariboo. 
Now, pards, I's an old veteran miner, 

My ha'rs have grown gray in the biz, 
Don't go a cent on this expert, 

My 'pinion '11 stand agin his. 



ODE TO CARIBOO FRIENDS. 

A T last I must leave you, dear home in the mountains, 
At last last say farewell to your dear Cariboo ! 
No longer to sip from its bright pearly fountains 

The cool draught of water distilled from the dew. 
Oh, Barker, fair village, adown by the brook side, 

Where millions have sprang from thy watery breast, 
Fear not for thy future, fair queen of the mountains, 
For millions and millions are still 'neath each crest. 

I feel it, believe it, God knows I speak truly, v 

And would that some others might speak as they believe ; 
But when experts grow zealous, O, Lord, how unruly ! 

And in their excitement don't care to deceive. 
But Time is a worker, much better than experts, 

Though slowly, yet surely, he makes all things right ; 
And so when some experts are dead and forgotten. 

Your dear Cariboo will be prosperous and bright. 

Farewell, dear old comrades, you old forty-niners, 

God bless you, dear boys, till I meet you again ! 
Which will be ere the snowflakes have covered your cabins, 

So sure as the sunshine which follows the rain. 
Leave you for ever ? How could you believe it — 

Leave all the home I have got in this world ? 
No! and returning I never will leave it 

Till justice is done and the truth is unfurled. 

Barkerville, July 20th, 1878. 

133 



TO CHARLEY. 

MV DEAR OLD PARD. 

ONELY to-night in my little log cabin, 
I am thinking of you and the days long ago, 
When together we sat on the peak of old Harney, 

Drinking the grandeur of nature below. 
True, it was grand, and well I remember 

The rapture that beamed in your bright sunny eyes 
As you looked through the glass tow'rd the valley of Custer, 
With her thousands of peaks towering up to the skies. 

Then did we picture the great Eastern cities, 

Comparing the grandeur of nature and art, 
While you said — no art can compare with this picture ; 

And I acquiesced from the depths of my heart, 
For e'en when a boy I loved the wild mountains, 

The green flowery valleys, the laughter of rills ; 
And often in fancy and dreamland 1 wander, 

Back to my boyhood amongst the wild hills. 

My comrades, the brave pioneers of the mountains, 
Loved their young chieftain, and I loved him too ; 

The reason was fully explained at your cabin, 
The day that I borrowed that bronco* from you. 

* Charley W. was the special correspondent of the Kansas City Times for the Black 
Hills. When Charley first made my acquaintance I was sitting astride of a half-cut log 
on my half-built cabin. We had many hunts together, and, on one occasion, the Indi-'" 
ans got our whole camp outfit, together with my saddle, field-glasses, and my saddle- 
bags, containing my scrap-book, which contained copies of scraps I had saved 
for over six years. One morning the Indians ran off with sixteen head of horses, and 
my white charger among the rest. I rushed down to Charley's tent, and he gave me 
his bronco to go after the reds. Twelve of our boys started, and we returned next 
day with eight of the stolen horses, which the Indians were forced to drop. 

T39 







— *^>*: 






harney's peak from Gordon's stockade. 



TO CHARLEY 



And when we returned from the chase the next morning, 
Your welcoming shout, and your honest embrace, 

Was more to me then than the laurels of glory, 
Won by the proudest of all Adam's race. 

Oh ! what a life — away from temptation — 

Away from the snares of life's busy throng, 
Singing in chorus those odes of the woodland 

In notes that were tuned by the mocking-bird's song. 
In ignorant bliss, and oh! how much better 

Than knowledge that's only acquired to deceive, 
By hypocrites robbing the widow and orphan, 

And crimes that are almost too vile to believe. 

And yet how I yearned for the knowledge you gave me — 

For you were the first who had taken my hand — 
You were the first to encourage me onward, 

And picture my future in language most grand ; 
And since then my verses, the fruit of my nature, 

These unpolished roughs, the impulse of my heart, 
Have found some admirers e'en amongst critics 

Well versed in literature, science and art. 

Thus while the bright star of hope is before me 

I shall continue to work with a will ; 
Determined to scale all the heights of misfortune, 

And slowly creep over adversity's hill. 
Then, my dear friend, when the height of ambition 

Is mine — and way up on the summit I stand — 
I shall think of the comrade who first gave me courage — 

Who gave me new life and a brother's right hand. 

In the Mountains, February 28, 1879. 




VIEW NEAR CUSTER CITY. 

CUSTER. 



TO GENERAL WESLEY MERRITT, CUSTER'S FRIEND AND 
COMRADE. 

" No spot on the American Continent," says Major Newsom, in his 
Black Hills Sketches, " is so grand and beautiful as Custer. Lying peacefully 
in a basin, French Creek winding through it, and the ground gently ascend- 
ing even to the apex of Harney's Peak, the scene is lovely beyond descrip- 
tion. In front of the city a high mountain rears its head ; just outside of the 

142 



CUSTER. 143 

line of houses a bluff surrounds the place in a semi-circle, and from this bluff 
no grander view ever fell upon the vision of man. Talk about scenery in 
Europe! It is tame in comparison with that about Custer. Gazing out 
from this point, no sight could be more enchanting. Here at our feet is the 
I city, sO clean and regular. Yonder is an undulating plain, as charming as 
1 the graceful figure of a woman; on our left winds the road ; on our right, 
swelling knolls, hillocks, valleys, a'hd just beyond, grand, natural avenues, 
three hundred feet wide, on either side of which are uplifts of rocks, and on 
the top of which are trees. Further on are parks, grottos, rills, vales, 
streams, valleys, mountains, and every element necessary to make a most 
imposing scene. These avenues are lined with trees, and the small road 
which winds through them reminds one of the magnificent domain of an 
English lord rather than nature's handiwork. An artificial park of this 
character would cost at least ten million dollars." 

""P HERE'S a spot in the woodland 

My heart longs to see, 
Where streamlets are dancing 

With laughter and glee ; 
Where the sweet daffodil 

And the daisies are seen, 
And the deer loves to sport 

On its mantle of green. 



CHORUS. 

In the valley of Custer, 

The park with its cluster 
Of little log cabins spread out on the green. 

'Tis the valley of Custer, 

Where oft we did muster, 
And drank to the brave from the soldier's 
canteen. 

Oh, the flower of that valley, 

Whose bright name it bears, 
Now sleeps near the river 

Away from life's cares. 



[ 44 



THE POET SCOUT. 



But still there's a spot 

Holds his mem'ry most dear, 

The heart of each comrade — 
Each brave pioneer. 

Chorus — In the valley of Custer, etc. 

The pine trees are sighing 

On hill-tops around. 
We hear not his voice, 

Nor the sweet bugle sound. 
Our tears wet the sod 

On that terrible morn, 
When God called the roll 

On the " Little Big Horn." 

Chorus — In the valley of Custer, etc. 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND SONGS. 



THE PICNIC BY THE BROOK. 

SONG AND DANCE. 
Written for Miss Nellie McHenry, of Saulsbury's Troubadours. 

HAVE wandered o'er the prairie 
When the roses were in bloom ; 
I have listened to the streamlets 
In the cheery month of June ; 
While the mocking-birds were singing 

I have listened in the dell, 
But nothing e'er cheered me 
Like the voice of little Nell. 

chorus 
For she's sweeter than the lilies by the brook, 

And her voice is like the streamlets in the dell — 
It echoes back from every little nook, 

And the stars are not so bright as little Nell. 

By the brook she sang so sweetly 
That my heart was all aglow, 

And then she danced so neatly, 
With her light fantastic toe, 

Can you wonder I was captured ? 
But I fear it's wrong to tell 

How I enjoyed that picnic 
• By the brook with little Nell. 

Chorus — For she's sweeter, etc. 
i47 



148 THE POET SCOUT. 

She's as pretty as a picture, 

And her heart is full of glee, 
And how my heart was beating, 

When she looked and smiled on me. 
But, indeed, I'll never whisper, 

How in love with her I fell; 
For I hear she's got her lover, 

This bewitching little Nell, 
Chorus — For she's sweeter, etc. 

Yet, no matter where I wander, 

Over prairie, land or sea, 
The rippling of the waters 

Will repeat her songs to me. 
Tho' she leaves for far Australia, 

I shall always wish her well — 
Good-bye to brookside picnics, 

And the voice of little Nell. 
Chorus— For she's sweeter, etc. 





BIRDS OF THE HUDSON BAY. 



~P7 VERY day when I open the door 
■^ Of my little cabin, I see before 
Two little birds — a happy pair, 
Sitting, and cooing, and twittering there- 
Sitting and waiting, perched on a bough, 
149 



*5° 



THE POET SCOUT. 



And never afraid of me — somehow 
Waiting to see the door open wide ; 
Then in a moment, close to my side, 
They come and chirrup, but never sing- 
Chirrup for crumbs, waiting for spring — 
Spring that will come, melting the snow, 
Then my pets will leave me* and go 
Off to the meadows, happy and gay, 
Beautiful birds of the Hudson Bay. 




* Hudson Bay birds (natives of British Columbia). 



LINES TO COLONEL J. G. FAIR. 



MY FRIEND. 



D 



(EAR friend, I have a word to say to you, 
Something to tell ; perhaps you never knew 
Half my distress, the shock of Fortune's frown, 
That bore me down to earth, and kept me down, 
Till you, with generous heart, made clear the way ; 
Gave hope where hope was dead — a sunny ray 
Dispersed the clouds that overhung my sky, 
And made my crutches to the four winds fly. 
Oh ! sir, had I a heart of stone, 
Instead of flesh and blood, I'd gladly own 
That you have made of me this very day 
A man, but in a different way 

From kicks and frowns (by which some men are made), 
By starting me a little up the grade. 
" Now help yourself 7" I thank you from my heart 
For those last words, because they form a part 
Of this new life — and make my bosom thrill — 
A beacon light to guide me up life's hill. 
Once there, upon the summit of its brow, 
My heart will speak as it is speaking now ; 
From out its greatest depths will breathe a name 
That made me in my joy forget that I was lame. 
Then — Heaven helping — every act of mine 
Will prove my gratefulness for one of thine. 
So let me live that you may proudly say, 
I was his friend in need, and am to-day. 

San Francisco, September, 1879. 

I5 1 





MY OWN MOUNTAIN 
TREE. 

Written on the back of a photograph, under a 
palm tree, in Los Angeles, California. 

T NDER a palm tree reclining, 
^ Away from the turmoil and strife, 
The sun in his glory is shining — 

All nature seems grafted with life ; 
The birds sing as sweetly above me, 

So happy are they in their glee ; 
But give me the dear friends who love me, 

And birds on my own mountain tree. 



152 




LINES ON THE BABY BOY. 

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG MOTHER'S ALBUM. 

IKE budding rose in early Spring, 
He bursts from out the snowy sheets- 
His mother's pride, his father's joy, 
Their ears with baby music greets. 



Oh ! may thy future, baby boy, 
Be cloudless, and thy pilgrim way 

All sunny beams, and peace and joy, 
Until thy hair with age is gray. 
i53 



THOSE EYES. 

WRITTEN IN CARIBOO, B. C, ON LOOKING AT THE PHOTO. 
OF AN OLD SWEETHEART. 

\\ /"E meet as strangers now. Those eyes — 

Those dreamy eyes — whose love light shone 
On me like sunbeams from the skies, 
And gazed so fondly in mine own, 
No more have warmth, love, light, no more 
For me, as in the days of yore. 

Those witching eyes of heavenly blue, 
Beneath long silken lashes dreaming, 

While far from her in Cariboo 

I oft have tried to solve their meaning ; 

While something whispers as I sigh — 

Old boy, those flames were all a lie. 



GOOD-BYE. 

To one who had been very kind to me, and watched by my bedside night 
and day until convalescent, after a severe wound, 

f~* OOD-BYE, my darling, since you must away 
^^^ To other scenes, and other hearts to greet you ; 
With me I could not longer ask you stay, 

Besides, my dear, I know not how to treat you. 
You and I have led a different life — 

You among the best and most refined, 
While I afloat upon a sea of strife 

With vulgar men — the roughest of mankind. 

And yet, this heart that beats alone for thee — 

This heart that learned to love blue eyes so well — 
Is just as tender as a child's could be, 

And you can make it heaven for me-ah! well. 
Oh ! darling, you can never know. God knows 

The feelings of a heart so nearly broken. 
And you, at times, as cold as mountain snow, 

With not one word of love — one little token. 

If I, deep in my heart, could feel 

That you were mine — and mine alone — for life, 
That you would, trusting to my strong arms, steal, 

And some day let me call you little wife. 
Oh, God ! the thought most drives me mad, indeed ! 

And why ? Your actions merit not the thought, 
For now you're almost anxious to be freed 

E'en from my sight — and will I be forgot? 
i55 



*56 



THE POET SCOUT. 



If so, then say the word. Do say 

You do not love me, for suspense is pain ; 
Tell me, darling, ere you go away, 

If I have loved my blue-eyed girl in vain ? 
If so, 'tis better, dear, for you and me — 

Better if the truth to me you tell — 
Better, though it breaks one heart, that we 

Should meet no more — but say a last farewell ! 




©— S 




UNDER THE SOD. 

TO J. P. 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF EDWIN L. JONES. 

T T NDER the sod he is sleeping to-day, 

Close by the sea-girdled shore — 
Under the sod and the dew and the clay, 

We can look on his face never more. 
Jovial, kind-hearted, good-natured and free — 
In peace let him sleep 'neath the shade of the tree 
In the land that he loved. 
157 



15S THE POET SCOUT. 

Under the sod they have laid him to rest, 
The lover of right and the hater of wrong ; 

As honest a man as ever God blest, 

His love for a friend everlasting and strong. 

And if for the wise and the good there is rest, 

Then Edwin is surely at home with the blest, 
For the heavenly gates were ajar. 

Under the sod near the murmuring sea, 
So far from the home of his childhood ; 

So far from the cabin and old mountain tree, 
Where he sported with Sam in the wildwood. 

His trials are over, his good deeds are done, 

His battles are fought and the victory is won, 
And Edwin has gone to his God. 



vYy5 





THE DEAD AND THE LIVING. 



TO MRS. N. 



HP WO fond hearts forever parted, 
One forever broken-hearted, 
Left to weep and mourn and sigh, 
Wishing but for death to die — 
i59 



160 THE POET SCOUT. 

To die — to rest beneath the sod, 
To join her husband and her God — 
To live in happiness and love, 
And rest in peace with Him above. 

Oh ! Thou who notes each sparrow's fall, 

Whose careful eye looks overall, 

Look down on this poor broken heart — 

An angel send to take her part, 

To soothe her soul and dry her tears, 

To heal the wound and calm her fears. 

Grieve not for him now cold and chill, 
But think of those who love thee still. 
Let son and daughter dry thy tears, 
And comfort thy declining years. 
There's balm in Gilead, so they tell — 
The angels whisper, " All is well." 

Cariboo, B. C, March i, 1S79. 



*H^^fe*^-** 




AT LAST! 

LINES ON THE DEATH OF EDWIN ADAMS, THE ACTOR. 

A T last the ship has come 

To carry good Edwin home. 
" How long, oh Lord?" he murmured, 

Like Enoch, when alone. 
His beacon light still burning, 

He gazed far out to sea — 
At last ! O, Lord ! good Edwin 
Has sailed along with Thee. 

At last Thy will be done, 

Not mine," good Edwin said ; 
'' Farewell ! my wife — my friends ! ' 

The man we loved is dead, 
We bow to Heaven's will — 

And Edwin now is free ; 
At last his spirit hovers 

Around the throne with Thee, 
ir 161 



l62 



THE POET SCOUT. 



At last the book of life is closed — 

His voice is heard no more ; 
We cannot clasp his honest hand 

As in the days of yore. 
He waited long with patience 

The snowy sails to see — 
At last ! O, Lord ! good Edwin 

Has sailed along with Thee. 

At last the ship is anchored, 

And yet I know not where; 
But with our jovial Edwin 

There's sunshine always there. 
The great unknown hereafter 

I do not understand ; 
But believe dear Edwin Adams 

Is near to God's Right Hand. 




JACK CRAWFORD. 

The following pretty lines appeared in the Oakland Tidal Wave, of Feb- 
ruary 2, 1878, and, as the author is unknown to me, I take this opportunity 
of thanking him or her, and also giving these lines a place in my book, for 
their sentiments have already found a corner in my heart. 

"LTERE'S a tribute of friendship, Jack Crawford, 

Though bare of the polish of art — 
An unworthy praise, but 'tis offered 
From out of the depths of a heart. 

To a gentleman born, and born poet, 

Whom poets can best understand, 
The crudest bouquet, but I throw it 

As free as a kiss from the hand. 

For 'tis grand in a brother so gifted 

With beauty and power in song, 
To stand with his voice and hands lifted, 

And bravely do battle with wrong. 

As justice and virtue's defender, 

And friend to the poor and oppressed, 

By millionaires whirling in splendor — 
Yes, then, 'tis a princely bequest. 

What good you will do, you'll have done it 
Through strength of your innocent songs ; 

And from the bright dream, when you've won it, 
Will fall where it justly belongs. 
163 



THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 

A PARODY. 
TO THE TOILING MILLIONS. 

The following poem was recited at Pacific Hall, on the 13th of September, 
1877, on the occasion of the benefit for the Soldiers' Widows' and Orphans' 
Relief Fund : 

/^\NCE, when I was weak and weary, 
^-"^ And the day was cold and dreary, 
I was famished, almost starving — 

Ragged were the clothes I wore, 
I was thinking of suspensions, 
And the railroad king's intentions, 
For they were then in convention, 

Planning as they planned before ; 
Tis monopoly, I whispered, 

And the wolf is at our door— 

This it is — and nothing more 

Thus for hours I sat and pondered, 
Sat and closed my eyes and wondered — 
Wondered why these men of millions 

Were not like the men of yore ; 
But the answer came — 'tis fashion, 
Hoarding gold to please their passion, 
With fancy teams forever dashing — 

Dashing past the poor man's door; 
Scornfully they look and mutter, 

As they pass the poor man's door: 

" Our slaves— and nothing more." 
164 



THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 165 

Your slaves ? Aye, chained and fettered, 
" Slave " on every brow is lettered; 
You will sign to our conditions, 

Or we'll grind you to the floor ; 
You have, with a weak subjection, 
Severed every free connection. 
U. S. troops are our protection ; 

You have signed your names — ye swore 

To obey — and nothing more. 



Oh, ye gods ! And must we languish, 

In our poverty and anguish ? 

Starve while money kings are planning 

How to keep their gold in store ? 
Is our country not enlightened, 
Or its heads like cowards frightened, 
That the reins should not be tightened 

On these robbers of the poor ? 
Yes ! The toiling mass can do it— 

We have changed such things before 

Give them power — never more. 



While corruption reigns in office, 
Every knave and fool and novice, 
For a sum of filthy hicre, 

Will betray his trust — and more : 
They will legislate to press you, 
And in every way distress you ; 
Yet they'll meet you and caress you, 

But they're traitors to the core. 
They will swear by all that's holy 

For your vote — but nothing more. 



1 66 THE POET SCOUT. 

Look toward the broad Atlantic, 

See a million starving, frantic — 

Bread or blood is what they're asking — 

Blood or bread to feed the poor, 
Begging bread for which they're slaving — 
Dangers on the railroad braving, 
Want and hunger ever craving, 

Gnawing deep into the core, 
While the railroad gods are basking 

On the Long Branch sunny shore : 

These are facts — and nothing more. 

Must we beg to be in fetters ? 

Are these railroad kings our betters, 

That we must like slaves approach them, 

While our wants they still ignore ? 
No ! There must be some reaction ; 
Something done to crush this faction — 
Labor must have satisfaction, 

Though grim death stood at our door. 
Shall I tell you how to get it — 

How to strike corruption's core ? 

Vote for tricksters — never more. 

Oh, ye sons of toil and danger, 
Christ was cradled in a manger — 
He was poor and weak and lowly, 

Yet for us the cross He bore ; 
But the rich-robed fiends they tried him, 
Persecuted and denied him, 
And with robbers crucified him, 

Just for being Christ — and poor; 
Just because he killed corruption, 

Jesus died — and nothing more. 



THE POOR MAN'S SOLILOQUY. 167 

Yet there lives to-day, confessing 
That they love that Christ, professing 
Men who say that bread and water 

Is enough to feed the poor ; 
This from Beecher, sainted sinner — 
Could he give us nothing thinner? 
Does he think that he'll be winner 

Just because he slights the poor? 
Just because some railroad magnates 

Enter in at Plymouth's door — 

Angel's God say — never more. 

Can such beings ask for pardon, 
While their hearts they ever harden ? 
Can they ask for peace from Jesus, 

While his laws they still ignore ? 
No, by all the hosts above us — 
By the broken hearts that love us — 
By the tears of many millions 

Of the wronged, down-trodden poor — 
They can never reach that heaven 

Until hell is frozen o'er, 
Which the Reverend Mr. Moody 

Tells us will be — never more. 



OFF TO THE PICNIC. 



TO YE SONS O CALEDONIA. 

A WA' ye brawny sons o' Scotland ! 

Up the banks and doon the braes, 
Through the Hielands o' Nevada, 

Sing yo 'r songs o' ither days ; 
Yet it's no rich gowrey's valley, 

Nor the Forth 's dear sunny side ; 
Nor the wild and mossy mountain, 
Father of the placid Clyde. 

Yet just for the while imagine 

Ye are back on Scotia's shore, 
'Mang the braes and grouse and heather 

Where the Highland waters roar; 
'Mang the groves o' sweetest myrtle, 

Or perhaps aside the doon, 
Thinking o' young Bobbie's courtship 

By the light o' bonnie moon. 

Noble, brave, unselfish poet! 

Don't forget him 'mid yo'r joys; 
Fill and drink to him a bumper — 

He was nature's bard, my boys. 
One o' Scotland's noblest freemen, 

Spurning lords and lairds and crown ! 
Here's to Scotia's bard and poet — 

Bobbie Burns — boys, drink her down. 
168 



OFF TO THE PICNIC. 169 



Up in Heaven wi' Highland Mary, 

Burns now sings a sweeter song; 
He is wearing brighter laurels 

Than the men who did him wrong. 
"Scots wha hae," methinks I hear it — 

"Bonnie Doon," ah! how sublime; 
At yo'r picnic drink this bumper — 

" Bobbie Burns and Auld Lang Syne!" 

Gold Hill, Nev., August, 1877. 




TO MARY ANN AND CHARLES O'NEILL. 

WRITTEN BY REQUEST OF THE BRIDE — MARY ANN. 

P\OWN the country, long ago, 

Mary Ann commenced to grow — 
Romping, riding, full of life, 
Never care and never strife. 



In the mountains, long ago, 
Charley's heart was all aglow, 
Thinking of a bright-eyed child, 
Arch and fair, and very wild. 

Gay little girl was Mary Ann, 
Catch the little dear who can, 
While she sang, " The world is wide- 
Wonder when I'll be a bride? " 

Charley said : " I'll bide my time — 
Mary Ann will yet be mine." 
While the anvil he would pound 
Mary Ann was in each sound. 

Then coquettish Mary Ann, 
Looking round upon the clan, 
Never dreamed her "No " would kill 
Charley O', of Barkerville. 
170 



TO MARY ANN AND CHARLES O'NEILL. 171 

Charley thought, with dreamy eyes, 
Some one else may win the prize ; 
Dropped his tongs and anvil, too — 
Left the hills of Cariboo. 

Mary Ann, with queen-like sway, 
Turned her head and ran away, 
Leaving Charley in the lurch ; 
Couldn't see it — going to church. 

But when days grew cold and drear, 
Mary Ann would say: "Oh, dear!" 
She would often think and say : 
" Oh ! for what I threw away ! " 

One day meeting in the barley, 

He said : " Mary !" she said : " Charley ! " 

Now he's happy at this plan — 

So is mad-cap, Mary Ann. 

Cariboo, B. C, March 14, 1876. 




CATO'S IDEAS 

ON THE NEW CHURCH DOCTRINE. 

WENT to church last Sunday, 
Which I allers want to do, 
To hea' dat same old story, 
But I hea' ub sumfin new; 
An' wife, old Deacon Johnson, 

Who allers preached so well, 
Come out an' tol' us darkeys 
Dar wasn't any hell. 

Wharfor he tol' dat story 

Is sumfin I don't know, 
Kase if dar ain't no debil, 

Whar will dem wicked go ? 
Kase 'tain't no use in preachin' 

If Adam nebber fell, 
An' 'tain't no use in prayin' 

If cussin' does as well. 

Now, dis chile ain't no angel, 

But you hea' Cato talk — 
Dar's sumfin gwine to happen 

If 'gainst de Lord we balk ; 
Kase if der was no 'mighty, 

Dat sun he nebber shine, 
An' you jes bet sich preachin' 

Ain't gwine to win dis time. 
172 



CATO'S IDEAS. 173 



I can't jes understan' it, 

Kase jes two weeks ago 
He tol' us how ole Satan 

Was roamin' to an' fro ; 
An' now dar ain't no debil, 

An' no sich place of fire ; 
Dis chile don't take no chances- 

I's gwine to clim' up higher. 

I's tried to do my duty, 

An' tried to do it well, 
An' surely it can't hurt us 

If dar isn't any hell 
(Kase if when we is berried 

Beneath the col', col' clod), 
Dar is a home in Heaben, 

Den we kin see dat God. 




THE GRAVE OF MY MOTHER. 

A SONG. 
To Mrs. Emily Pitt Stevens, San Francisco. 

""HERE'S a green grassy mound in the valley I love, 
Where angels their vigils are keeping ; 
The pine trees are singing a dirge far above, 

The sky pearly tear drops is weeping, 
And cooing on high is a bright turtle dove 

O'er the grave where my mother is sleeping. 

CHORUS. 

Peacefully sleeping, she sleeps 'neath the clay, 

This world cannot give me another; 
No one to guide me, and no one to pray, 

While I weep o'er the grave of my mother. 

The dew-drops are falling, the evening is here, 
And o'er me night's shadows are stealing ; 

All nature is silent, good angels are near, 
And hushed is the harvester's reaping, 

While fondly I linger 'mid memories dear, 
Near the grave where my mother is sleeping. 

Chorus — Peacefully sleeping, etc. 

Oh ! here let me linger in silence and bliss, 

W T hile only the starlets are peeping, 
And mix with the dew-drops a tear and a kiss, 
O'er the grave where my mother is sleeping, 
For no spot on earth is so sacred as this — 
This spot where my dear mother's sleeping. 
Chorus — Peacefully sleeping, etc. 
i74 



THAT BOY. 

To D. R. McKlNE, on his first born. 

U APPY father, full of glee, 

Laughing, dancing, making merry ; 
May you always happy be — 

Drink the baby's health in sherry. 
May he prosper night and day, 

Grow 'mid love and sweet caressing, 
While you kiss his lips and say : 

God, I thank Thee for this blessing — 
In that boy, 
Full of joy, 
Darling, bouncing baby boy. 



First-born baby, dimpled darling, 

God protect him every hour ; 
Keep him from all harm and danger- 
Father's pet and mother's flower, 
May he grow in grace and goodness, 

With no troubles to annoy — 
Not one trait of sin and rudeness, 
Father's pride and mother's joy. 
Father's boy, 
I wish you joy, 
And your darling baby boy. 

Virginia City, Nevada, September, 1877. 

175 



THE RANGERS' RETREAT. 

The following letter, addressed to Fred. W. Willard, editor of The 
Press, Leavenworth, Kansas, explains the origin of the following little poem : 

Dear Sir — You wish me to choose a subject for myself. Something con- 
nected with life in the West, and while thinking of the past, there is a spot 
which was very dear to me, in. my mountain home in the Black Hills. We 
had an organization in the Hills called the Rangers, a company of about two 
hundred men, commanded by Major Ed. Wynkoop, of Colorado, and your 
humble servant had charge of a band of scouts, ten in number. The spot 
that I propose to write a song about is where we often met and watched for 
the red-skins. I named it the Rangers' Retreat, and I think that title will 
also be appropriate for the song. 

' ' I "IS a dear little spot in the valley I love, 
And the pine trees are waving above it ; 
The home of the lark, the blackbird and dove — 

I never can tell how I love it. 
I've roamed through its grandeur with rifle in hand, 

O'er beautiful streamlets 'and fountains; 
From Calamity Bar the scene was most grand,. 

With its moss-covered rocks and its mountains. 

CHORUS. 

'Tis cosy, 'tis cheerful, that moss-covered dell — 
That dear little Eden where I used to dwell ; 
The flowers when in bloom cast a fragrance so sweet 
Through that dear little valley, the Rangers' Retreat. 

O, 'tis speckled with daisies and covered with dew ; 

There's no spot so dear as that valley, 
Where brothers met brothers, the brave and the true, 
And in danger 'round each other rally. 
176 



THE RANGERS' RETREAT. 177 

The deer and the antelope roam in the dell, 

The mocking-bird sings in the bushes, 
While under the daisies the jack-rabbits dwell, 

And the water-snipe hides in the rushes. 

Chorus — 'Tis cosy, etc. 

And, though I'm far from that valley to-day, 

The scenes are all pictured before me : 
The deer are at water, the birds are at play, 

And the sky-larks are all singing o'er me. 
I think I can see my dear comrades of old, 

The sound of each rifle seems ringing ; 
The echo comes back from that valley of gold, 

While the boys round the camp fires are singing, 
Chorus — 'Tis cosy, etc. 



PC 







NORA LEE. 



A SONG. 

HAVE watched the roses blooming 
And the violets' lovely hue, 
And daisies like the starlight 

As they sparkled with the dew ; 
I have looked upon the lilies 

And the flowers of every tree, 
But none were half so pretty 
As my blue-eyed Nora Lee. 
178 



NORA LEE. 

CHORUS. 
She is sweeter than the violets, 

She is fairer than the rose ; 
Her eyes are soft and tender, 

And her cheek with beauty glows. 
Oh, I never can forget her, 

Though she never thinks of me ; 
I love that blue-eyed beauty — 

Little darling, Nora Lee. 

To my prairie home I'm going, 

With my comrades brave and free, 
And yet where'er I wander 

Those blue eyes will follow me. 
I shall see them in the camp fire, 

They will sparkle in the dell, 
And in the rippling streamlets 

I shall hear that last farewell. 

Chorus — She is sweeter, etc. 

God bless you, Jack ! God bless you ! 

Were the words she whispered low; 
I thought 'twas heavenly music 

From her throat as white as snow. 
And my heart beat in a tremor, 

So she spake kind words to me. 
I wish I did not love her — 

Darling, blue-eyed Nora Lee. 

Chorus— She is sweeter, etc. 

I have gazed upon the streamlets 
When the moon was shining bright, 

The rippling of the waters 
In the summer noon of night. 



179 



180 THE POET SCOUT. 



I have looked on nature's grandeur 
On the prairie, land and sea, 

But none of them could charm me 
Like the voice of Nora Lee. 

Chorus — She is sweeter, etc. 

Oh, no matter where I wander, 

Her sweet image will be there; 
Her blue eyes shine upon me, 

And her voice be everywhere. 
And though I pine in sorrow 

She is all the world to me ; 
May angels guard my fairy — 

Darling, blue-eyed Nora Lee. 

Chorus — She is sweeter, etc. 




THE FIRST FLOWER OF MAY. 

In May, 1876, a band of Sioux drove off fourteen head of our horses, and, 
after two days' chase, we regained seven of them, but owing to the Indians 
having a change of horses, we failed to secure any scalps. On the first even- 
ing, after a hard day's ride, we camped in a pleasant valley near a cooling 
spring of water. Frank Smith (Antelope Frank as we called him) and 
myself had ridden about three miles further in hopes of getting a sight of 
the Indian camp, and it was on our return to the valley mentioned above, 
and a venison supper, that we laid down to rest under a spreading pine, 
when the incidents occurred which called forth the following verses, written 
at the time with lead pencil, and heretofore unpublished. 



A DAISY ! The first I had seen in the Spring, 
Was peeping from under the sod; 
The air was so chilly, the wind was so cold, 

That I fear'd the fair daisy had made rather bold 
To ascend from the earth's warmer clod. 

Just then a fair sky-lark flew heavenward to sing 
Sweet anthems, in praise to his God. 

How sweet to the traveler those soul-stirring notes, 

When weary with riding all day ! 
Indeed, it was joy to my comrade and me — 

The lark in the sky, and the flower on the lea, 
And our weariness soon passed away. 

That night 'round the camp-fire we tuned up our throats 
And sang of the first flower of May. 



1S1 



SAN BERNARDINO. 

While playing in lower California with my company, in January, 1878, I 
was requested to write something on the city, and the following was the 
result, as seen from the Court House. 

HAVE roamed through nature's grandeur, 
On the prairie, land and sea ; 
I have watched the roses blooming, 

And the daisies on the lea ; 
Other skies have been less clouded, 

Other hands were clasped in mine, 
But I never saw a valley 

That was half so grand as thine. 

In your streets I saw the streamlets 

Sparkle, as they murmur by, 
And beyond were snowy mountains 

Towering up toward the sky ; 
Snowy clouds around them clustered, 

Filling you with hope again, 
While the blades of grass were laughing 

At the near approach of rain. 

Lovely rain ! It came in torrents, 

Though it spoiled my house to-night, 
But I would not, dare not murmur, 

While it filled you with delight ; 
Yet the sun will shine to morrow, 

Shedding blessings from above, 
And the birds will sing their praises 

To their King and God of love. 
182 



SAN BERNARDINO. 183 

Now, farewell, San Bernardino ! 

May thy flocks and herds increase, 
May thy valley prove an Eden, 

Full of love, and joy, and peace ; 
And when Gabriel blows his trumpet, 

Gathering all from near and far, 
When you reach the Heavenly valley, 

May you find the gates ajar. 









MY BIRTHDAY. 



1\ /TY birthday! yet 'twas accidental 

That I found it came to-day; 
Lonely in my cabin musing, 

How the time does pass away — 
Not a soul to wish me gladness, 

Not a friend to pull my ears; 
While my heart is filled with sadness, 

Thinking of the passing years. 

Once I had an angel mother — 

How she used to bring me joy ! 
Birthdays one upon the other, 

I was still her favorite boy. 
But the angels took her from me — 

Dead and gone these many years — 
She who was my guardian angel 

In this thorny vale of tears. 

How she used to pray, " God bless him J" 

While the tear-drops filled her eyes, 
With a mother's tender pleading, 

Looking up toward the skies. 
Oh, my mother ! if thy spirit 

Hovers near me while alone, 
Bless once more thy wayward offspring, 

In this little cabin home. 

In the Mountains, Cariboo, March 4, 1S79. 

184 



LILLIE. 

" Last evening, at the Bush Street Theatre, a beautiful incident occurred, 
not down on the bills, however, yet which was highly appreciated by the 
large audience present. It is well known that Captain Jack Crawford, 
the hardy mountaineer, scout, poet and actor, has an especial prediliction for 
children, and he is in the zenith of his joy when he has a bevy of them around 
him, spinning his extravagant stories, and otherwise amusing them. Last 
evening the Captain was sitting in the orchestra circle, when he was espied 
by a four-year-old flaxen-haired beauty across the theatre. Quick as 
thought she left her mother's side, ran clear around the circle, and without 
the slightest ceremony, seated herself on the Captain's lap, not only to his 
surprise, but, from appearances, to his delight, for he entertained the little 
' waif the balance of the evening. The incident was a very pleasing one." 
— San Francisco Footlight, Nov. 8, 1S77. 

CHE left her loving mother's side 
*^ And climbed upon my knee — 
A lovely little blue-eyed child, 

Who spoke her love for me. 
I gazed upon the throng around, 

On fashion's daughters fair, 
But not one tress in all that throng 

Could match sweet Lillie's hair. 

God bless her! Just a little while, 

I held her to my breast ; 
Forgetting all life's cares at once, 

I waited her request. 
And then in whispers soft and low, 

And pointing over there, 
Said she, " My mama told me once 

That oou had till'd a bear." 
185 



1 86 THE POET SCOUT. 

I never saw the play — not I 

Indeed — I did not care, 
For I was happy spinning yarns 

For little golden hair ; 
And how her little blue eyes shone 

Each time a story ended, 
And how she almost shouted out, 

" Oh, my, but dat was sp'endid !" 

" Oh, dear ! and must we really do ? 

I wish it wasn't out ; 
I feel so very dood, 

I wish dat I tood shout." 
Sweet angel ! you have brought me joy, 

And filled me with delight ; 
May angels guard you all through life — 

God bless you, child, good-night ! 



«— Vsi 






ARMY AND TEMPERANCE POEMS. 



• OUR FIRST RE-UNION. 

Respectfully dedicated to F. B. Gowan, brother of my brave Colonel, who 
fell while leading us in storming the rebel post at Petersburg, April 2, 1865. 

*\1 7"ITH love — which time can never change — 

We grasp each other's hands, 
And think of battles fought and won — 

Of Burnside's stern commands ; 
Bright memories of the hallowed past 

Are stealing through our souls, 
While thinking of the noble dead 

Now mustered from our rolls. 

At times our hearts would almost bleed, 

And angels seemed to frown ; 
But God was on the ramparts, boys, 

While the mortars tumbled down ; 
And though at times a boy was hit 

With a fragment of a shell, 
We stood it — did we not, comrades ? 

In the ramparts of Fort Hell. 

And when we went on picket, 

With our blankets on our arm, 
And each a stick of wood, comrades, 

To try and keep us warm ; 
How oft we thought of happy homes, 

Of friends and parents, too, 
And lovely little blue-eyed girls 
Who'd die for me and you. 
189 



190 THE POET SCOUT. 



And often, when we shouted 

Across to Johnny Reb, 
To throw us some tobacco, 

And we would throw them bread, 
How quickly they responded, 

And the plugs came thick and fast, 
And we shared them with each other — 

And shared them to the last. 

But, though they gave tobacco, 

And though we gave them bread, 
Between the lines we soon must see 

The dying and the dead ! 
And though Mahone defied us, 

And though her strength was great, 
Who would dare to charge them, boys, 

If not our Forty-eight ? 

And when our greatest Generals 

Defied our boys alone, 
To charge the enemy in front 

And capture Fort Mahone — 
Oh ! can you e'er forget it, boys ? 

The answer Gowan sent : 
" We'll take it, with the help of God, 

Or die in the attempt ! " 

And nobly on that fatal day 

He led us on so well. 
Till fairly on their ramparts, boys, 

Our noble Colonel fell. 
And did you mark the change, comrades? 

Where was the leader now 
Who dared to lead us on like he 

Who fell with shattered brow ? 



OUR FIRST RE-UNION. 



191 



I need not speak of other's deeds 

Who led us on before — 
Of Nagle and of Siegfried, too, 

Brave Pleasants and Gilmore. 
Oh, no! their names are written 

On a grateful nation's shrine, 
And nothing can erase them, boys, 

Until the end of time. 

Another word — each comrade's heart 

Is filled with gratitude 
To Siegfried, Pleasants, Bosbyshell, 

Who were so kind and good 
To offer us a banquet, boys, 

Such as we never saw — 
Much better than the hard-tack, boys — 

Hurrah! then, boys, hurrah! 

But don't forget, another year 

Will soon pass o'er our head, 
And then we hope to meet again — 

If living; but, if dead, 
May we not meet in Heaven, boys, 

And see upon the shore 
A picket guard of angels 

With Gowan and Gilmore ? 



•*»>®M<a«-*- 



»^(j9<~ 



DECORATION DAY. 

DEDICATED TO LINCOLN POST, NO. IO, DEPARTMENT 
OF CALIFORNIA. 

/^OMRADES, our nation is thinking, to-day, 

^-^ Of her glorious salvation, and counting the cost 

Of the men who are sleeping beneath the cold clay — 

The noble, the gallant, and the brave that we lost — 
That we lost ! Yet how fondly we cherish their names ; 

How eager to tell of the deeds that they have done, 
Their actions so brave, that their glory and fame 

Are pictured and told in the battles they won. 

Let our nation rejoice, then, 'mid sorrow to-day — 

Let our hearts beat with love for the flag of the free; 
While the widows and orphans are kneeling to pray, 

Great God of the Universe, humbly to Thee, 
And we who have safely returned from the fight, 

Would ask Thee, most humbly, dear Father, again 
To watch o'er our actions, that we, by Thy might, 

May show that our comrades have not died in vain. 

Dear comrades, the widow has come ; stand aside — 

Let her kneel by the tomb, unresponsive forever, 
Where molders the arm of the true and the tried : 

Her guard and protector, till war bid them sever. 
Stand aside, boys ; she comes, as she's come all these years, 

With a wreath, lovely wreath, all bespangled with tears, 
And a prayer, Heavenly Father, when this life is done, 

Reunite us in Heaven with lov'd Washington. 
192 



DECORA TION DA V. 193 

The orphan has come, boys ; let him have a place 
To look at the orator straight in the face, 
To listen once more, hear recounted the story, 
For his sire was a soldier, and shared in the glory ; 
And he, too, has vowed, on each thirtieth of May, 
His love for our Union ; God bless him ! we say. 

The patriot is here and the statesman has come, 

The actor, v the student, yea, every one ; 

The dwellers in palace, and hovel so plain — 

All, all, have done honor to the slain. 

Let the blossoms of May bow their heads o'er each grave, 

And breathe balms of sweetness all over the brave, 

And lilies, pure lilies, with roses so red, 

Be strewn with a wreath on the graves of the dead ; 

While tears of the widows and orphans like dew 

Are mingled with flow'rets of red, white and blue. 

And now as these heroes lie sleeping beneath 

The Stars and the Stripes, the flowers and the wreath, 

We think of the trenches dug after the fight, 

When wrapt in their blankets at dead of the night; 

We buried in hundreds, yea thousands, the brave, 

Embracing each other ; no mark o'er their grave, 

Save that simple inscription, one word alone, 

You read it with awe, and pronounce it " Unknown." 

And to-day of the four hundred thousand who fell, 

The wife, and the mother, and sister, will tell, 

Oh, how generous, how loyal, how noble and true, 

They died for our Union, for me, and for you ! 

Our Union still lives. They have not died in vain, 
And to-day we've adorned their graves once again; 
But those flowers, and the hands that have strewn them 
to-day, 

*3 



194 THE POET SCOUT. 

In death will soon languish, and all pass away. 
And these monuments, too, so majestic and grand, 
AVill crumble to dust. Yet our Union will stand-- 
And that is their monument, ours, too, as well, 
Who fought by the side of the noble who fell ; 
Who suffered in cabin, in camp, and in field, 
And swore by yon flag that we never would yield 
Till that flag, lovely flag, dearest flag of the free, 
Should float, boys, in triumph, for you and for me. 

And here as we gather to-day 'neath its stars, 
And look upon comrades with crutches and scars, 
And sleeves, empty sleeves, hanging loose by their side. 
The boys who survived 'mid the thousands who died — 
And yet do they murmur? No, no! nor complain. 
" Each man owes a part," say the wounded and maim, 
" And we have but acted our part in the strife, 
And gave but a limb, while the dead gave their life." 
Oh, comrades, how hallowed the ground where they sleep — 
Where the widows and orphans are kneeling to weep 
O'er the brave who have fallen in skirmish and fight, 
Protecting that flag and the cause that was right. 

And yet we have still a great duty to do, 

Work on loyal hearts until death's last tattoo 

Shall lull us to rest 'neath the flag of the free, 

Till awakened by angels, a sweet reveille, 

From the boys who have gone, and whose marching is o'er, 

They are watching on picket, on Canaan's bright shore. 



OUR MARTYRED DEAD. 

GENERAL E. D. BAKER. 

The following poem was read by me at the tomb of Gen. E. D. Baker, 
on Decoration Day, 1879. The three first verses are mine ; those following 
by M. P. Griffis, General E. D. Baker Post, Philadelphia. 



C OLDIERS, comrades, gather round me- 
^ List, the story I will tell 
Of a noble, gallant soldier — 

One who loved our flag so well. 
Here he sleeps beneath the daisies ; 

Here, beneath the mossy sod, 
Near the broad Pacific's murmur, 

He is moldering with the clod. 

Oh ! how brave — methinks I see him 

Charging — leading, sword in hand, 
With the courage of our Custer, 

At the head of his command. 
Onward ! upward ! rally ! comrades, 

See ! the rebel horde gives way ! 
Ah ! Ball's Bluff, you had a martyr 

When our Baker fell that day. 

While we gather round his ashes, 

Comrades far beyond the plain 
Send a tribute to his mem'ry 

From the Post that bears his name. 
Baker Post, in Philadelphia — 

Boys who joined him in the fray — 
Bade me tell you how they loved him, 

And I speak for them to-day. 
195 



196 THE POET SCOUT. 

IN MEMORIAM. 

Eighteen years have passed, dear comrades, 

Since the man whose name we bear 
Bade farewell to rank and station, 

But a soldier's lot to share. 
Onward marching with the army — 

Onward fighting for the free — 
By a pure and holy purpose 

He was guided to the sea. 

Oh, my comrades, over yonder, 

In the far Pacific State, 
Sleeps our brave commander, Baker, 

Close beside the Golden Gate. 
Heaven's dew will wet the laurels, 

Comrades' hands will strew sweet flowers, 
Some brave boy will read this tribute 

O'er that martyred brave of ours. 

Tell the friends who gather round you 

How he fought to gain the day ; 
How, when cruel death had marked him, 

Faint and bleeding in the fray. 
Tell them, comrades, how, when dying, 

k< Charge ! " he said : " Boys, take the hill ! 
Yes, thank God ! I see it waving J 

See ! our flag is floating still ! " 

Thus he died a gallant hero, 

Soldier, statesman — none more grand. 
Strew his grave with sweetest flowers, 

Comrades of the sunny land. 
And when death has claimed our army, 

When life's pilgrimage is o'er, 
May we meet our martyred Baker, 

Now at peace for evermore. 



MY FIRST SONG. 

To one of my former comrades in arms I am indebted for a copy of these 
verses, as I had not only lost the original but entirely forgotten about their 
existence; and as memory brings me back to the time of their composition, 
and as the incident which caused their production may be interesting, I will 
give it here. On April 2d, 1865, I was wounded at Petersburg, Va., and, 
while in the Hospital at City Point, the news of Lee's surrender reached us. 
Two days before the news came the immortal Lincoln visited #he wounded, 
and all who could stand up in a line could have the pleasure of shaking the 
hand of him we loved so well. There were some great exertions made to 
reach those ranks. Although crippled in one foot myself, I helped to hold a 
man up who requested to be carried out on a chair, fearing old Abe might 
not come to him ; and I shall never forget the touch of that hand, soft and 
warm from contact with so many great rough hands of the soldiers. It 
seemed as if to squeeze it the least bit would hurt. But old Abe, I remem- 
ber, squeezed my hand so that it almost hurt me, and the man whom I was 
holding up shed tears as the President shook his hand. " Where are you 
wounded, my man," said he. " In the right thigh, sir, and I'm glad of it." 
" Yes, you will soon be well again, and you can say you bled for the old flag." 
"No, sir, not so much that, but I can say I shook hands with honest Abe." 
" God bless you, my man," said he, passing on to the next. After this 
handshaking, and before leaving, he picked up an axe in front of the stew- 
ard's quarters and made the chips fly for about a minute, until he had to stop 
fearful of chipping some of the boys, who were catching them on the fly. 
Although some on catching a ball myself, I failed to get a chip, although I 
did get a hard fall in trying to get a piece, and was carried into my bunk. 
While the boys were singing " The Old Virginia Lowlands," on the fol- 
lowing day, and when the song was ended, I started to improvise, and made 
several verses to the great amusement of my comrades, and especially a young 
New York Zouave, whose father was a physician, and who wrote down with 
lead pencil the following verses which I dictated to him, and which are the 
first I ever composed. My reason for mentioning the Zouave's father as 
being a physician is that if ever he should see this he will communicate with 
me. Although I have forgotten his name, he was a noble young man, well 
educated, and gave me some good advice. He also wrote copies of this song 
and sent it to Lieut. Harry Reece, of my company, and when, two weeks 
after, the regiment returned, the war being over, the first thing I heard on 
going into camp was my song. 



T 97 



THE POET SCOUT. 



THE 48TH TO MY COMRADES. 
Tune. — Old Virginia Lowlands. 

'HP IS of a plucky regiment, 
I'll try to sing a song, 
I hope you'll pay attention, 

For I won't detain you long. 
They always did their duty, 

And you bet they did it well, 
And they fought in the late engagement, 

Which took place near Fort Hell. 

CHORUS. 

In the old Virginia lowlands, 

Lowlands, lowlands, 

In the old Virginia lowlands, low. 

We fought up through the Wilderness, 

And Spottsylvania too, 
Until in front of Petersburg, 

Where we found some work to do. 
We were ordered for to drive a drift,* 

To undermine the rebs, 
And the 48th worked night and day 

To blow them off their legs. 

Chorus. — In the old Virginia lowlands, etc. 

When the work it was all over, 
And the job was quite complete, 

Lieutenant Reece he touched it off, 
And blew them off their feet. 



* This mine was started on the ist of July, 1864, and blown up on the morning of the 
30th. It was engineered by Col. Harry Pleasants, and was pronounced one of the 
finest pieces of engineering done during the war. Col. Pleasants was a noble officer, 
and was afterwards breveted Brigadier-General. 



MY FIRST SOXG. 7g9 



The battle then it did commence, 
The blood in streams did flow, 

But undaunted was brave Burnside, 
Who quickly charged the foe. 

Chorus. — In the old Virginia lowlands, etc. 

But some one made a blunder, 

Tho' the mine was nicely planned, 
They tried to blame our Burnside, 

Which the Ninth Corps would not stand. 
For Burnside is a patriot, 

A soldier brave and true, 
And he has always proved it, 

And his Ninth Corps boys in blue. 

Chorus. — In the old Virginia lowlands, etc. 



J^ 




U9— 2 



MOTHER'S PRAYERS. 

The following poetical scrap has touched the hearts of many. It was recited 
before a temperance meeting in Wheeling, West Virginia, and its influence 
was such — according to local papers — that the excitement did not cease until 
after five hundred names had been added to the pledge. 

T N the dreary hours of midnight, 

When the camp's asleep and still, 
Not a sound, save rippling streamlets, 

Or the voice of the whippoorwill, 
Then I think of dear, loved faces, 

As I steal around my beat — 
Think of other scenes and places, 

And a mother's voice so sweet 

Mother, who, in days of childhood, 

Prayed as only mothers pray : 
Keep him in the narrow pathway, 

Let him not be led astray ; 
And when dangers hovered o'er me, 

When my life was full of cares, 
Then a sweet form passed before me, 

And I thought of mother's prayers. 

Mother's prayers ! Ah ! sacred memory, 

I can hear her sweet voice now, 
As, upon her death-bed lying, 

With her hand upon my brow, 
Calling on a Saviour's blessing, 

Ere she climbed the Golden Stairs. 
There's a sting in all transgressing, 

When I think of mother's prayers. 



THE POET SCOUT. 



And I made her one dear promise — 

Thank the Lord, I've kept it, too ; 
Yes, I premised God and mother 

To the pledge I would be true. 
Though a hundred times the tempter 

Every day throws out his snares, 
I can boldly answer, " No, sir! " 

When I think of mother's prayers. 

And while here, I tell the story 

Why my boyhood's days were sad ; 
Is there not some one before me 

Who will make a mother glad? 
Swell her heart with fond emotion — 

Drive away life's bitter cares; 
Sign and keep the pledge for mother — 

Heed thy mother's earnest prayers. 

There is no one on the prairie 

Who must say it more than I — 
No — I never drink. I thank you, 

I can never take your rye ; 
And there's not in many hundreds, 

Not a man who ever dares 
Ask me drink when I have told him 

How I thought of mother's prayers. 

Oh ! my brother, do not drink it, 

Think of all your mother said ; 
Sure 'twill make her spirit quiver, 

Or perhaps she is not dead ; 
Don't you kill her, then, I pray you, 

She has got enough of cares. 
Sign the pledge, and God will help you. 

If you think of mother's prayers. 



MY TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. 

]\ /T OTHER'S spirit 'round me lingers, 
Mother's prayers are in my ears, 
And a boy again I'm kneeling 

Near her while she calms my fears. 
Now she whispers, " God protect him, 

Be his guide when I am dead ! " 
And I'm sure the guardian angel 

Must have heard what mother said. 

"Lead him not into temptation, 

On the prairie, land or sea! " 
Now I see her dear eyes sparkle, 

As her words come back to me — 
Words oflove — a mother's blessing — 

Words that haunt me day and night, 
And the promise that I gave her 

Keeps her in my memory bright. 

" Son, my son," said she, when dying, 

" Be to them what I have been." 
Then she called my little sisters, 

Till and Lizzie, on the scene ; 
" Jack will never see you hunger, 

While there's work for him to do — 
Be to him obedient, darlings, 

And he will be kind to you." 

Oh ! how can I tell the story — 

You can't believe it if you try ; 
2 o 3 



?Q4 THE POET SCOUT. 



But there's one at home in glory 

Who would say, " My boy won't lie ! " 

If you only knew her sorrow, 

Anxious care and pains and tears, 

Waiting for a brighter morrow — 
Waiting long and weary years. 

Waiting, oh ! such lonely waiting, 

Night and day, and day and night ; 
Waiting for the clouds to vanish — 

Waiting for a sky more bright ; 
Dying, then the clouds were scattered, 

And she saw a brighter sky ; 
When I made her this, my promise, 

Which she asked for ere she'd die : 

" Mother, dear, you say you're going, 

You will soon be 'neath the sod, 
While your loved ones are near you, 

Thus I raise my hand to God, 
I have signed the roll already ; " 

Then the old clock struck eleven, 
As I gave my pledge to mother, 

And she took it up to Heaven. 




MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. 



T N my cabin on the hill-side, 
Just one year ago to-day, 
When the miners held a meeting 

In the hills so far away, 
There was one among our number 

Who determined was to fight. 
" Just a word," said one old miner, 

" And I'll try to set him right." 

" Did you ever have a mother?" 

He whispered soft and low ; 
Poor boy, he fairly trembled, 

His face turned white as snow. 
" Did I have a mother ? What ! 

Great God ! man, she is dead ! 
Oh ! had I only heeded 

The words my mother said." 

That magic word of mother 

Oft wields a great effect, 
And yet we oft forget it, 

And leave it to neglect. 
But mine is not forgotten, 

Though she's been dead so long, 
Her spirit seems to guard me 

When I would dare do wrong. 
205 



2o6 • THE POET SCOUT. 

And, somehow, conscience whispers, 

When I would go astray : 
" Thy mother's spirit watches 

And hovers near alway." 
And, oh! how it must pain her 

To know my wicked ways ; 
If angels pray for loved ones, 

I know my mother prays. 

God forgive us, we don't mean it, 

We forget when doing wrong; 
But the tempter overcomes us 

As we mingle with life's throng. 
With thought and meditation 

Comes remorse and inward strife, 
And then we promise mother 

We will lead a better life. 

And oft while on the prairie, 

On the mountains, in the hills, 
I could think I heard her whisper 

In the murmuring of the rills. 
And with dangers all around me, 

Seeming nothing but despair, 
There is nothing can confound me 

When I think of mother's prayer. 

Deadwood, D. T., June 24, 1876. 



♦-©♦ 

t 



THE MURPHY GANG. 

The following song was written in the Pennsylvania oil country, during 
the great revival of 1877, and dedicated to Mr. F. Murphy. 

"\TAIL your banners to the derrick, 

Grease the old machine once more ; 
Shout hurrah for Francis Murphy ! 

He is knocking at your door ! 
Mothers, down upon your marrow, 

Pray with all your heart and soul — 
Pray for fathers, sons and brothers — 

Pray that all may sign the roll. 

CHORUS. 

Nail your banners to the derrick, 
Grease the old machine once more ; 

Shout hurrah ! for Francis Murphy ! 
He is knocking at your door! 

Think of all the millions squandered — 

Think of all the crimes and sin — 
Think of this, and ask God's blessing 

On the cause, that it may win. 
Oh ! that I had voice like thunder, 

I would shout with loud hurrahs ! 
I would sing for God and victory, 

Francis Murphy and the cause. 

Chorus — Nail your banners, etc. 

Man is but a tiny vessel, 

Tempest- tossed upon the wave ; 
Show him that he's wreck'd and sinking, 

He will cry, " Oh, save ! Oh, save ! " 

207 



:o8 THE POET SCOUT. 



Nail your banners to the derrick, 
Grease the old machine once more ; 

Drunkards, shout to God and Murphy ! 
They stand ready on the shore. 

Chorus — Nail your banners, etc. 

Why do I hurrah for Temperance ? 

I will tell you — this is why : 
Father died, alas ! a drunkard, 

And poor mother had to die, 
Broken-hearted, meek and weary, 

Toiling for her little dears ; 
Early as I can remember, 

Mother wept sad, bitter tears ! 

Chorus — Nail your banners, etc. 

And when on her dying pillow, 

This is what she said to me : 
" Johnny, darling, will you promise 

Down upon your bended knee ? 
Promise you'll not be a drunkard. 

Never touch it for my sake, 
For I know some one will love you, 

And, like mine, her heart would break! " 
Chorus — Nail your banners, etc. 

Then and there I promised mother, 

And it rilled her soul with joy ; 
Then she smiled and went to Heaven, 

Where she hopes to meet her boy. 
Now, I trust, you know my reasons 

Why I shun the tempter's fang, 
Why I shout hurrah for Temperance — 

Why I love the Murphy gang. 

Chorus — Nail your banners, etc. 



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